


Keeping Pace

by doenerkint



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry/Fleur - Freeform, Motorsports, Not BWL compliant, Racing fic, Sirius/ OC, Slice of Life/Romance, Very AU, rated T, slow burning romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doenerkint/pseuds/doenerkint
Summary: Unable to cast magic, Harry is raised by Sirius as a muggle and knows nothing of the magical world his family and friends belong to. Left to his own devices, he follows his late parents’ passion for muggle motorsports and takes his first steps into the realm of racing to feel closer to them. Across the English Channel, a french flower shares that passion as well, binding the threads of fate for the both of them to meet...eventually. [Harry/Fleur] [Slice of Life/ Romance] [Prologue ‘86/ Fic begins at Y4] [Rated T] [Racing Fic]
Relationships: Fleur Delacour & Harry Potter, Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter, Sirius Black & OC, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hi everyone. This story is something I cooked up with my buddy Cripple AKA Cadmean is Cannon over at the Flowerpot server. It is a story I haven't seen anyone else try, so I figured it might as well be me. Also, my thanks to DavidtheAthenai, for his undying support, and everyone on the Flowerpot Discord server, you guys are awesome.
> 
> A/N#2: For those who got an update alert, sorry about that. I just re-uploaded an improved version of my prologue. Also, and most importantly, please join me in thanking Darkened Void for his outstanding beta work on this beast of a prologue. Without his input, I'd have left in all those tiny but horrifying mistakes.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the HP universe or the mentioned brand names in this story, they belong to the appropriate entities that brought them into this world.
> 
> Well then, please enjoy.

April 28th, 1986

Tours de Corse, Corsica, Territorial Collectivity of France

The air in the tent was charged, the heavy humidity coming from the coast clinging to the skin of those inhabiting it. The revving of engines and the yelling of mechanics could be heard from outside the worn cloth structure. A singular loud French accented voice could be heard calling for the next participants of the time trial. From the number being called, she could easily tell they still had a decent amount of time before they had to make their way to the time trial.

For the time being, however, Lily paced across the carpet that covered the uneven ground underneath it. Huffing, she raised a hand to her forehead to massage the pounding headache that didn't seem like it would release her from its torturous grip.

On the bed next to her sat the tense form of James Potter, his eyes cast down with his hands on his knees in an effort to support his exhausted body. His eyes, while they appeared closed, followed his wife's moving feet, tracking the constant movement that had an effect akin to the hypnotic sway of a pendulum. Her pacing, as agitated as it was, caused him to lull into a light slumber many times in the few minutes they had been awaiting the looming trial.

Their discussion, or rather their one-sided heated argument, was one they'd had many times before and would continue to remain an issue for the foreseeable future.

Sighing to himself, he finally raised his head to look at his agitated wife, her stride being the only barrier preventing her from breaking down and unleashing another wave of fury at him. Her red hair hung loosely and waved back and forth behind her head as she continued to pace the space of the tent, her hands fiddling before her and playing with the golden wedding band.

He swallowed at the tell-tale sign but otherwise remained absolutely silent, afraid to even make the smallest sound that would signal the next round of their talk, as she'd put it.

Eyeing the space to his right, he let his glance travel along the camping furniture, taking in the various personal items that had accompanied the couple for many years now since their decision to begin their career in muggle motorsport together.

Lily, as a muggleborn, had a head start in her racing career, having begun her training as a racing driver as early as her 4th birthday. Her late parents, her father especially, had supported her interest in motorsports right from the start and continued to do so even when she'd received her invitation to Hogwarts when she had turned just 11. How she had managed to do so well at Hogwarts - so well in fact that Albus Dumbledore himself dubbed her the 'smartest witch of her age' - while also pursuing her motorsport aspirations just as successfully, still impressed him.

He had only taken to muggle machinery upon discovering Sirius' flying motorcycle and taking an interest in its ability to allow for the noisiest of escape tactics after pranks had been successfully executed.

The mischief the Marauders had caused without getting caught on that machine had encouraged him to find ways to make the motorcycle more effective in the future. More weight, more speed, and more everything was needed for each passing prank. With each time his abilities and skills as a mechanic and wizard proved to be to the detriment of the boys' victims.

James smiled to himself at the memory of their past excursions. Sirius and himself scheming, Remus' development of spells that would best execute said schemes and little, brittle Peter who would only happily join them in Professor McGonagall's detentions, despite having had very little involvement in the planning of each prank.

"What are you smiling about?" he suddenly heard his wife ask dangerously.

Turning his head back to her fuming eyes, his smile collapsed instantly, restoring the previously flat line it had maintained for the duration of their argument.

"It was nothing. I just remembered a joke Harry told me not too long ago," he lied.

At the mention of their young son, Lily dropped her arms from her chest. Without another word, she turned away to pace the length of the tent again - only this time she did so more slowly.

Mentioning Harry may have been a cheap shot, but it was his only shield against his already steaming wife. They loved their son dearly but with Lily that love took on an entirely more intense meaning.

Perhaps it was because he was their only child, or maybe it was because he had yet to perform one ounce of accidental magic that made her so very protective of him. He couldn't tell when it had started to become this overbearing infatuation between his son and his wife, but he could tell that if they continued to remain unclear on the future for their son, the relationship between himself and his wife would sour beyond redemption.

Most children that possessed magic immediately produced feats of accidental magic, signaling to most parents that they had to make arrangements to protect the child, not only from itself but also from those who didn't know about magic.

When Harry had not produced magic in his first few months, James and Lily had thought it was their son being better at controlling sudden magical outbursts. He used to believe that Harry may have been a prodigy in the making.

That belief had first emerged five-and-a-half years ago, but still Harry hadn't produced any magic thus far. The early praises of self-control soon made way for mixed feelings and lastly, for ever-present worry and fear, resulting in the growing frequency of loud conversations between himself and his distraught wife.

Soon a word wormed its way into the heads of the concerned parents as they continued to watch their son grow taller with each passing year - squib.

It was a short and harmless when written on paper, but it carried the stigma of all that was considered 'poor breeding' within the magical society. Some countries treated their magically inept members less harshly but in the British magical society the inability to use magic was viewed with disdain. This derision extended to the parents as much as the child.

James couldn't deny that the word being levied at his family caused him more grief than his son's actual deserving of that title. It was due to the love he held for his only son that he accepted the harsh words from his wife. However, he could not ignore the sting in his chest each time she'd cursed the magical world for calling their son that. It was still, after all, the world he had been raised in.

Upon asking his friends and mentors for advice, they too could only shrug and try to hide their pity for the youngest member of the Potter family.

It happens, my boy. Even to the best of us. The old, bearded wizard had tried to comfort the couple, but his usually comforting gaze had held only sorrow and pity.

His friends Remus, Sirius and Peter could only agree and did the best they could by playing the roles of doting uncles to the boy who'd one day realize he'd been denied a gift that his family and friends took for granted.

Magic was as kind as it was cruel - as most things that belonged to nature were. It didn't discriminate, nor did it consciously choose whom to bless with the gift of the craft. It just acted on a balance that was indiscernible to magicals and muggles in equal measure, leaving parents to either celebrate or mourn its choice.

Another child would receive Harry's blessing in his stead and that was final. No bribery and no blackmail would ever change that. Ever.

"He'll be six this year, James." Lily suddenly spoke, pulling James from his thoughts.

Blinking at her, his eyesight cleared to see a calm demeanor gazing back at him expectantly. Her green eyes still held a semblance of their redness but the colour of her skin and wildness of her hair had normalized again.

James nodded at her, confirming her statement. He didn't know what else was left to say on the matter. They had a decision to make and each time they tried to decide, they'd only ended up cursing at each other, trying to place fault where none could be found. It hadn't been up to any of them.

Yes, it was true that magically purer families had a higher chance of conceiving magically abled children, but the chances weren't much higher than children conceived between parents of mixed heritage. Statistics on that weren't released to the public, but James had been allowed to look at the Unspeakables' studies on the matter.

While he hadn't told them why he'd been interested in said records, he was confident they'd inferred his reasons with little effort. To them, he was just another disgruntled parent seeking justice for a wrong that was only natural and inevitable.

Lily had never said it out loud, but she'd spent her time blaming herself. He could tell from the way she would stare at herself in the mirror each morning. She'd also rejected the idea of having another child with him, fearing a repeat ordeal.

He made sure to never let her actually believe it. Again, it was and had never been up to them.

Lily still stood opposite from him, her eyes cast down at him, waiting for him to reply to her statement.

"We've skipped nursery and pre-school, thinking he might just accidentally cast magic when we've yet to warn him about it," she said clearly, her hands placed on her hips as she continued, "And soon he'll reach the age where we have to decide to enroll him in a school for muggles."

James nodded and hummed his confirmation again. Lily's eyes grew increasingly impatient at his lack of words and decided to continue regardless.

"I think it's time we've accepted the fact that he may never learn magic," she admitted, a sigh escaping her lips at the words that would follow, "So we may as well hide magic from him altogether."

James' eyes became large and his eyebrows moved to hide in his black mop of wild hair that he shared with his son. Shaking his head at her, he gestured in confusion.

"And how do you imagine we do that? Treat him like an outsider in our own home?" he asked with disbelief in his voice.

Lily shook her head at him. "No, of course not," she replied hotly. "All we have to do is not use magic in his presence. That's it. It's not that hard to do, James. Most parents don't possess magic and neither do their children."

"That's not the same, Lily."

"No, it actually is. We just don't have to use magic for everything we do. I know you're not used to it but I am. I know we can do this." She urged him.

Shaking his head at her more insistently, he crossed his hands in front of him and looked away in contemplation. He didn't like the idea. No, he hated it. A Potter playing as a muggle in his own house? Never.

It was unheard of that a family would knowingly hide magic from their offspring. It had never been done before. When a squib was born, they were stigmatized, yes, but it was still made public and the child learned to live with the burden regardless.

The Daily Prophet would shred them to pieces and label them as heartless and cruel parents who'd willingly toy with their only child. Other families would not only call them names, but would laugh at them and sneer at their boy from afar. They would become a spectacle for the amusement of all the other magical families in their society.

"James, are you listening to me?" His wife's voice broke him from his introspection, her annoyance at being ignored written clearly on her face.

"I am," he provided curtly.

"We can do this." She encouraged him again. How he hated her words and her tone.

Moving his eyes to look at this wife again, he noticed that behind her eyes hid something else other than stubbornness - defeat.

He hadn't stopped to consider that she knew best what society would do to them and still she'd decided to come up with the proposal.

"I know what you're thinking and believe me when I say that I'm sorry," she said meekly, her earlier annoyance seemingly forgotten, "But this is for the best. He'll never know and will grow up to be a normal person, free of the shackles that our society might want to place on him."

"And what if somebody takes it upon themself and tells him? What then?" he asked tiredly, his eyelids suddenly feeling heavy. Raising his hand, he massaged them to push back against the exhaustion.

"For now, we'll keep him with us and make sure he remains perfectly undisturbed by the magical world and its inhabitants. When he grows older, we can perhaps send him to boarding school or abroad where no one knows him. Perhaps we'll all go somewhere where the name Potter doesn't raise any questions." She finally concluded her argument with a hopeful shrug.

At the unmoving face of her husband, Lily bent down to sit on her heels as she grasped his hands in hers. His eyes rose to meet hers, in confusion.

"Do you love our son more than anything in this world?" she asked him seriously, staring into his brown eyes with uncompromising intensity.

Eyeing her again with disbelief, he responded loudly. "Of course I love our son!"

Smiling at him, she nodded happily. "Then that's all that matters, James."

Her conclusion seemed as curt as it seemed absurd, possibly even more so. However, he couldn't deny that in the end, it didn't matter what others thought or said. What mattered was that their son was able to live a full life with the few tools he could pass on to him, sans magic.

He would never be able to teach him to ride a broom nor how to play a game of quidditch. He'd never be able to do the things his own late father had enjoyed sharing with him. Harry would experience an entirely different childhood than his own, but he would be damned if he wouldn't make it a happy one.

"Group B cars, please be advised; the classification time trial will begin in 10 minutes. Repeat. Group B cars at the first main control point in 10 minutes at the latest. Late arrivals will be penalized with extra time. Thank you."

The sudden buzzy announcement coming from the PA system reminded the couple that their talk had extended well beyond their notice of time, forcing them to suddenly rush to collect their things and prepare themselves for their timed performance around the Mediterranean island belonging to France.

Before they left the tent, James grabbed his wife by the arm just as she was about to step through the gap in it. She turned to look at him through her helmet, the padding dulling the outside noise and his voice.

"Thank you," he began, "For this. It gives me hope." He breathed as a weight dropped off his shoulders that he hadn't noticed he'd been carrying all this time for five years.

Eyeing him calmly, Lily's eyes became smaller as her cheeks moved to form a smile in return at his words. Her response was muffled by the helmet, but he could still hear her well enough.

"Thank you," she began, her voice equally thickened in emotion, "For having faith in the three of us."

Her eyes twinkled as she pulled her arm from his loose grip and jogged ahead, leaving him to try and catch up with her as he fumbled with the fire-proof gloves in his hands.

"Now," he heard his wife declare suddenly, "Get your head in the game. There is a race to win."

###

A bit earlier that day...

Harry sat on a make-shift wooden bench - a board placed on two piles of wheels - under the water-proof plane of the team's tent. The mechanics working next to him banged away at the bent metal fenders of his parents' car, sweating profusely as with each swing of their hammer a drop of salty water would fall from their chins onto the plastic cover spread out under them.

The car in front of him, a Ford RS200, with its petite design but huge rear spoiler, looked very different from the other cars he had seen during the event thus far. His father explained that rally racing, especially in Group B, was where manufacturers could produce almost any kind of car they could imagine and stack it up against competitors from across the globe.

Luckily, the British branch of Ford had produced a number of promising rally cars in its history, the current apex specimen being the car that was parked right in front of him.

Letting his eyes travel across the length of the car, Harry studied the design in detail, occasionally catching himself imagining the car flying across dusty roads, the large plumes of dirt drawing a smokey line across the landscape.

"What are you smiling at, little man?" a voice asked from his side.

Shaking himself from out of his vivid daydream, the short boy turned to look for the person who'd just addressed him. Seeing a pair of knees meeting his even gaze, Harry turned his head upward to find a bearded man smiling down at him. The face was a familiar sight within the premises of the tent, belonging to the part-owner and managing director of the team. Harry, however, couldn't quite remember the man's name.

"Caught you dreaming, didn't I?" the man chuckled. "A beauty, isn't she?" He added and turned his gaze to study the subject of the talk.

Harry followed the man's gaze and could only agree with his statement, letting his small head bob up and down excitedly. "She's a ferocious beauty," he corrected.

The man eyed him at that and bent down to ask him why he'd phrased it so specifically.

"My dad told me; she's a beast that tears up all the competition and does so while looking ferocious at the finish line." Harry explained, his voice taking on a tone of somebody who'd stated the obvious.

Still bent down, the man chuckled even louder, drawing the attention of the mechanics working on the car next to the pair. Waving them off, they returned their focus back to their work - swinging hammers and turning wrenches.

"Have you thought about racing, Harry?" he asked the short boy.

Harry nodded in confirmation. "I have thought about it. Dad asked me whether I'd be interested in driving. He said he'd get me into the junior driver's training regime if I wanted," he began.

"He let me drive on a go-kart circuit back home, by myself, so that I wouldn't feel bothered by other kids. It wasn't as fun as I thought it would be," he explained further.

Letting his gaze return to meet the still silent man, Harry made to ask him something. "Do you find it weird?"

"Find what weird?" the man asked curiously, raising an eyebrow in question.

"That my parents are racing drivers and enjoy it, but I do not?"

Shaking his head at Harry in amusement and raising his hand to pat the boy on the head, he chuckled. "Nonsense, Harry. We all like different things and nothing says we have to like the things our parents, or anyone for that matter, do."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief at that and nodded to himself at the man's answer. He heard him clear his throat and move to sit next to him on the bench, his small, light body shaking at the sudden weight being added to the wooden board.

Crossing his fingers before him, the man opened his mouth again to speak. "Do you already like doing something else other than what your parents are doing now?"

"Yeah, I do," Harry quipped.

"Do you mind telling me?" the man asked politely, eyeing the young boy with a gentle smile.

Harry shook his head at him. "I think…I think I want to become a mechanic or somebody who makes cars better - faster. I like what these guys are doing." he pointed at the mechanics working on the car.

"Ah, I see." The man nodded.

"Is that something that I could do?" Harry asked gingerly.

Looking back at the suddenly shy boy, the man ruffled his wild hair and laughed. "Ha! Of course you can. It's the engineers that design cars and the mechanics who make sure they actually work. Drivers are there to make sure the full potential of the car is pushed to the limits."

Harry smiled brightly at that. "So I can help my parents when I'm older?"

"Sure you can, absolutely! As long as I'm around you'll have a place in our team. I promise," the man said confidently, his warm eyes betraying no lies.

Harry felt courage rising in his chest and a renewed sense of hope pooling in his mind. He considered asking his father for lessons on how to work on cars. Something they'd surely enjoy doing together. So far, the relationship between himself and his parents had been...different.

When he could spy other children and their parents, their relationships looked happy and exciting. The events that stuck out most to his young mind were of parents buying their children ice cream and letting them ride on their fathers' shoulders. Fathers would play the part of the 'noble steed' carrying its valiant knight into battle, each instance he witnessed leaving a festering feeling of envy churning deep in his gut.

As far as Harry could remember, his parents had loved him and cared for him, but their gazes would sometimes take on a look of pity...of disappointment even.

He couldn't say why they acted that way or even what he could have possibly done wrong. They had never deigned to discuss it with him, not even when he had acted up and deserved punishment. Pinpointing a 'why' to an invisible act of 'naughtiness' with only discouraging gazes for punishment left him with little to figure out the answer to his supposed grievance.

If he were to compare his parents, split their interactions between his mother and father, it was clearly his father who looked more disappointed than his mother ever did. She would spend most of her time, when she wasn't racing, teaching him to read and write. Books that she had read as a younger girl were given to him to read, his mother later confirming his attempts at self-education through the odd question.

Father, on the other hand, did little in that regard. Their father-son bond was based on their shared interest in cars. Harry could talk about cars forever, and so could his father. But it was when the topic had grown so exhausting that his father, James, would look at him again with disappointment...sometimes even guilt. The silence that would often follow their bursts of energy during their many animated discussions of cars felt heavier each time it occurred. As of recently, he'd begun avoiding talking to his father altogether.

With the encouragement to pursue the idea of becoming a mechanic, Harry felt an inkling of hope that he could begin to remedy the heaviness of their relationship. Perhaps it would ignite something between them that would push through to his father and enable the older man to bond with him indefinitely.

"Mr. Rickard, there's a problem with the gearbox, and we need your thoughts on it," a mechanic suddenly called from behind the car.

The man next to him, Mr. Rickard, quickly nodded at the mechanic and returned his attention back to Harry still sitting at his side on the make-shift bench.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I've got to deal with this. Even mechanics seem to experience roadblocks. We can talk some more later," he explained to the young boy, patting him on the shoulder before moving off the bench to deal with the urgent matter.

Watching Mr. Rickard's face, it took on a serious mien. Harry nodded at the shrinking form of the man as the latter moved to stand next to a group of mechanics gesturing wildly, shaking their heads in frustration.

Harry couldn't make out what they were talking about as hammers smashing into various metal pieces created a clamor that would allow little else to escape through to his young ears. He could see, however, that the problem seemed serious as hands were being thrown about in frustration their grease-smudged faces growing redder by the minute.

Becoming increasingly concerned at the loud exchange of words before him, Harry raised his palms to cover his painful ears. He soon realized, however, that the shouting match wasn't likely to end soon and considered making himself scarce, opting to go for a walk instead.

Getting off the bench in one fell swoop, he landed on his feet comfortably and marched out onto the dirty gravel, the small rocks under his feet crunching at every step.

Making his way around the large campsite of the sporting event, he could hear different languages blending together in a cacophony of indecipherable words. He could hear English, German, some French and the occasional Italian.

Harry liked the Italian teams because they seemed far more relaxed about everything. When it came to the French teams, or the Germans, they'd always struck him as rushed but seemingly well-functioning. Everything had to be in a specific place, and when it wasn't, naughty words would be slung about sharply and without care for those who were able to overhear them.

The Italian crews reminded him of rocky stars on the telly who were wild but remained experts in what they did. Their Lancia Delta S4 looked like a boring-looking box, but once it was on the road and its engine roared to life, it was truly marvelous to witness.

Harry loved the Ford his parents drove, but he could still be amazed at other cars' awe-inspiring performances.

Dragging his eyes away from the Italian team's tent, he continued to walk along the gravel road until he reached an open area surrounded by a group of tents under the flag of a pouncing lion.

In each of the tents he could see the backside of the hatch-back Peugeot 205 T16, the top of the hatches garnished by a massive wing, meant to stabilize the rear of the lightweight chassis.

Harry could hear the crackly warble of the PA system announce the approaching start of the Group B cars, warning them that the cars had to make their way to the start in the next ten minutes lest they be punished with extra time.

He realized that his parents would be making their way to their car then and would notice his absence. He was sure, however, that they had little time to waste and wouldn't be able to talk to him until after their time trial. His presence was therefore not strictly necessary. Thus, he could continue his little adventure around the camp, looking at the vast variety of colourful racing machines without anyone really taking notice of his prying eyes.

Moving closer to one of the tents, he noticed that it was left abandoned by its team, the high-performance car standing in the center by its lonesome. Carefully approaching it, he let his hands slide tenderly over the satin paint job, the drawn straight lines of the car hid discrete grooves and curves to maximize airflow travelling cleanly across its shape.

To call it an act of French ingenuity was an understatement. It was brilliance that designed and built this car and driving this petite elegant monstrum could only be bliss for any driver. He could only imagine how the car looked as it raced across all the different possible landscapes and surfaces. The rain smashing against the windshield, the gravel slamming against the undercarriage and the kicked-up dust that would cover the fearless bystanders lining the edges of the roads.

Looking back at the Ford being prepped for his parents' drive, he could only shake his head at how much faster the Ford would have to be, to be able to beat a car such as the one his hand was resting on.

In his deep admiration for the Peugeot, Harry didn't notice the light-footed steps approaching him from behind. It was only when he felt the light beating of hot, humid breath against the back of his neck that he became tense and turned slowly to gaze upon the slightly taller body of the person standing so close to him.

###

Fleur stared at the boy's back as he walked around the Peugeot, his hands touching the surface gingerly, his eyes studying every nook and cranny of the car's chassis. He hadn't noticed her sitting in the corner of the tent, her presence hidden by the large refrigerator where her team's drinks were being cooled.

Eying him carefully, she let her ocean blue eyes wash over him, taking in his shorter appearance. Judging from his height, she could already tell that he was a few years younger than herself but not too young to know his way around a car.

His pitch-black hair was a wild mess, pointing into different directions unevenly, reminding her of a bird's nest. At the thought of birds making his head of hair their home, she chuckled into her hand, trying to remain stock still. She wasn't ready to reveal herself to him just yet.

Continuing her observation, Fleur let her eyes travel drown from the back of his head and studied his attire. The t-shirt had the Ford team logo printed on it, indicating that he was perhaps a child of one of the team members. Perhaps he was similar to her, a child born into the sport. Perhaps, even somebody who'd share her passion for it as well.

Almost making a move to finally reveal herself, she halted. Her extended hand that had attempted to touch him receded back to her side. Grasping the hand with her other, she reminded herself that he was a muggle. He may have been somebody who'd share her passion for motorsports and come from a family involved in racing, but a friendship with him would almost certainly be impossible.

Fleur, unlike other witches, was a daughter of the Veela. She couldn't hide her magical nature the way other wizards and witches did and would thus risk exposing herself and her family. Aside from a breach of the Statute of Secrecy, an international magical law, she would possibly expose her Veela nature which could be used against her family - bringing further harm to her kind.

She hadn't yet accidentally transformed or set anything on fire with Veela flames, and her self-control over her normal magical abilities was secure. She wouldn't make a faux pas in that regard, but her mother and father had drilled it into her that she wouldn't have the same liberties that other magical children had. Her short-comings, her mistakes would be laid at the feet of not only herself but at the feet of those who came before her. It would allow the prejudiced to paint all Veela with the same brush.

Shaking her head at her spiraling thoughts, Fleur rid herself of the fearmongering taking place in her mind and returned her focus on the mesmerized boy again. He still stood there, wordlessly gazing at the car, seemingly deep in thought, ignorant of his surroundings and still completely unaware of her presence just a few feet behind him.

Getting off her camping chair, she began moving silently toward him just as her mother did when she stalked toward her father to scare him. Taking slow steps and letting her ears sharpen to listen for any sudden noises, she calmly approached the younger boy, his back still exposed to her.

Almost reaching him, she noticed how his body suddenly grew tense and the hair on his neck stood on end in trepidation. He must have noticed her presence in some way. She was sure she'd been perfectly silent and watched out for obstacles on the floor that would give away her movement, but perhaps she'd made a mistake and had simply not noticed it.

However, it mattered little now, as the boy began to slowly turn around to gaze upon her. His eyes first met her upper chest, an inch below her collarbone, before they began to look up at her and widen in surprise.

Fleur groaned on the inside as the boy remained quiet in astonishment, his eyes still wide and otherwise unmoving.

This reaction was normal for almost all males she encountered, even the youngest ones who hadn't taken an interest in girls. The shocked looks were always their first reaction before they caught themselves and either ran away or remained otherwise silent. This boy wasn't any different.

"Uhm, sorry, I didn't see you there-"

He would just be another person to be overwhelmed by her striking, unusual hair colour and photogenic face.

"If I knew you were there, I would have-"

If only he was a magical child, she could hex him and rattle him out of his stupor, giving her at least the benefit of releasing her frustration on him.

"Uhm, hey?"

Fleur blinked at him in confusion, noticing for the first time that he'd been talking to her. She hadn't even realized he'd moved a step away from her and the car next to him. Eyeing him again, she was finally able to look at his face, having had to look at his backside for the entirety of their presence in the tent.

His vividly emerald-coloured green eyes gazed deeply back into her own blue orbs, his stare unrelenting but not otherwise clouded by her nature. It was disconcerting to her and she was the first to break the short-lived eye contact.

Trying to be polite while also hiding from his intent stare, she made to finally speak, her mastery of the English language a product of her acquaintances within her father's team, Delacour Sport Peugeot, as well as her colleagues in the junior racing leagues.

"Who are you?" She asked first. "I mean, hello, and what are you doing in our tent?"

"I was curious and noticed that nobody was here," he explained with a shrug, "I mean I didn't see you and well, I thought I might use the chance to take a closer look at your Peugeot. I promise, I didn't mean to spy or anything, but I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry."

He looked down at his hands as he apologized to her, his fingers seeming suddenly a lot more interesting than they ever were before.

Fleur studied him again, shocked that he'd not been rendered speechless by her appearance, rather he had simply been silently surprised that another had been in the seemingly empty tent. He'd reacted simply like a person who had not expected somebody to be in their vicinity.

Chuckling to herself, she let a smile form on her lips, as she let her eyes search his. Bending down a slight bit to lower her face to meet his, she let her head tilt to the side, trying to make him feel more comfortable in her presence.

"You still haven't told me your name. May I know it?" she asked, her lips splitting to show white teeth.

"Oh," he uttered, "Right. I'm Harry. Harry Potter and my parents are James and Lily Potter, they drive for the Ford team on the other side of the camp." He pointed with his petite finger into the general direction behind him.

"And do your parents know you're all the way over here?" she asked with a smile that reached her eyes.

At the younger boy's pursed lips and lack of response, she could tell that he'd made his way across the camp without informing anyone of his whereabouts. Deciding against sending him away, in fear of him getting even more lost, Fleur instead decided to host to his interests to better keep an eye on him and ensure he made his way safely back to his parents.

"So you came to look at the deux-cent-cinq?" she asked him pointedly. He nodded earnestly and smiled at the mention of the car that stood parked next to them.

"Yeah, I know I'm not supposed to enter other peoples' tents. Mum and Dad forb…forbidded it, said it is bad manners. But I thought since nobody was around…I just wanted to take a quick peek," he explained self-consciously, his voice mixing between excitement and regret.

"I can understand the feeling," she agreed. "I find it just as exciting to look at these cars. They are…magnifique, are they not, Harry?"

At the mention of his name, he grinned at her in agreement, letting his head bob rapidly but remained otherwise quiet.

"Would you be interested to sit in it?" she asked nonchalantly, as if sitting in a high-powered, purpose-built racing machine would be the most normal thing in the world.

Harry's jaw dropped in response, his green eyes sparkling in excitement before he caught himself again and spoke with a higher pitch than before. "Yes, please! Can I? Yes, yes, yes!"

Righting herself, Fleur nodded at him, and turned toward the car door, opening it confidently. She bent down and quickly arranged the insides of the car, making sure that everything was switched off and secured.

Getting back out of the car, Fleur then extended her hand toward it and invited Harry to sit in it, who'd begun to bounce excitedly at the chance to sit in a car other than his parents' Ford.

However, before he could make his way into the car, a loud clear voice came from the PA speaker that was fixed to one of the poles in the open area outside of the tent. The message brought his short-lived joy to a disappointing end.

"This is Martin Gaul, your head marshal. Please be advised, we are looking for a young boy. His name is Harry Potter, he is 6 years old, black of hair and has green eyes. He bears a scar on his forehead and wears a Ford team t-shirt. If you see him or happen to have seen him, please approach the closest member of the staff and inform them."

The message was repeated in three other languages, but Harry had already stopped paying attention to what it said. Instead, he played with his hair to cover his forehead.

Fleur listened to the message in French as well to avoid misunderstandings and then turned to look at him more closely. Her searching eyes alerted Harry to what she'd been trying to do and made him raise his hand to his head again.

"It's there. You don't have to check." He admitted to her with an annoyed voice. Disappointed at her confusingly common searching, he turned away from her and began to make his way out of the tent. Fleur stepped up behind him in one big stride and held him by the shoulder.

"Don't leave, stay." At this questioning look, she cleared her throat to elaborate.

"It's quite busy outside, if you go out now, people might not find you at all. Or worse, you might get injured by a car driving around. The driver, at worst, may fail to notice you in time," she explained.

He looked at her and nodded his understanding, moving to sit on a free chair that was close to the car. She moved to join him and sat down on the chair on the other side of the small table separating them.

Sighing at the new complication, he groaned and rubbed at his eyes in frustration. "I almost made it into your car and that silly speaker had to ruin everything."

Feeling pity for the boy who'd shown such adamant interest in the car, she made to hold his hand to comfort him. Upon touching him, she noticed an unexpected coldness to his skin.

Withdrawing her hand with a jump, she rubbed her hands together to combat the chill in her fingers. Harry seemed unperturbed by her actions, having seemingly not noticed their skin touching.

Fleur looked at her hand and noticed that it had turned slightly darker than the rest of her skin. She waited a few moments longer and, thankfully, her skin returned to its usual healthy pink tone.

Her brows scrunched in consternation as she eyed her hand and the place on Harry's arm, she had touched for barely a second. Deciding to try again, she reached out to him, his gaze still turned away from her and focused on the car parked in the center of the tent.

Her finger made contact with his arm - nothing.

Then another finger - still nothing.

Then her entire hand - absolutely nothing happened. The lack of expected chilled skin only furthered her confusion, causing her to become slightly annoyed at finding a question she had no answer to.

Harry turned to look at her hand on his arm and tilted his head at her. "What are you doing?" he asked her, his eyes jumping between their skin touching extremities and her.

Withdrawing her hand again, she smiled wryly at him. She, herself, didn't know what had just happened and let the silence grow awkward between them rather than answer his seemingly simple question.

Saving her from the lengthy silence in the tent, her father Jean walked into the space and eyed the pair in surprise.

"Whom do we have here?" Jean asked his daughter, his eyebrow raised in question.

Getting up quickly from the chair, Fleur rushed toward her father and explained what had happened since Harry's arrival in their tent. She, however, decided against mentioning the odd, unpleasant sensation of Harry's skin. She didn't want to cause her father to worry over something that may just have been her mind playing tricks on her.

After Fleur finished telling her father what transpired, he turned to Harry and smiled kindly at the young boy, the older man surprised at the bright green eyes looking back at him.

"You have your mother's eyes, Harry," the man began, "but that may not save you from her wrath when she comes to pick you up from here." Jean added wryly.

Harry swallowed guiltily and accepted that his fate, in regard to his parents, had been sealed the moment he'd disappeared from the Ford team tent without a word.

Pulling a mobile phone from his bag that was tucked away securely in a corner, Jean typed a number into the large boxy device, the beeping sounds changing with each dial. After a moment of silence, Jean began speaking in French, mentioning the name 'Potter' and 'Harry' a few times along with the word 'Peugeot' mixed into it as well.

Fleur didn't really listen, her mind still busy thinking back on the strange sensation that had passed between the two of them. She only wanted to comfort him and all she got in return was chilling cold.

###

Walking to the team tent with long steps, Lily and James quickly approached the spot where their car was being prepped for the Group B run that was only a few minutes away from beginning.

Upon entering the space, James moved to catch a few of the mechanics mounting the tires and checking the fluid levels of the engine. Their hurried conversation, mostly the barking of orders back and forth between the crew members, was completely dulled out by Lily's helmet, who had chosen to search for her son.

She remembered agreeing with him - telling him in no uncertain words - that he was to remain close to the car where they would come to find him after her and James' talk in the drivers' tent. His absence wasn't unusual as Harry had always been a curious child and frustratingly flexible with his interpretation of parental instructions.

If it were any other place other than here, Lily would have waved it off and moved on with her task. That, however, wasn't the case. The encampment of the race on this island was not exactly the backyard of their home in Godric's Hollow. His disappearance wouldn't be remedied by going on a search for him behind doors and under beds. No, if he got lost here, they'd have to make a larger effort to find him.

Noticing the appearance of James and Lily's friend and fellow shareholder over the team's ownership, Klaus Rikard, Lily made to move toward him, her face's worry still hidden by her helmet.

"Klaus!" she called; her voice's urgency dulled by the helmet.

Hearing his name being called, the pale blonde man with brown eyes, who was not much taller than James himself, twisted his neck to eye the woman.

"There you are," he began instead. "We don't have much time. Get in there and go to the first main control point. We can't afford to get penalized. We are leading the field by mere seconds." His strict and professional demeanour was completely antithetical to the slowly changing atmosphere of the tent, knowledge of the lost child completely lost on him in his rabid pursuit of victory on the track.

Lily nodded at him but raised her hand to stop him from continuing that line of thought.

"Klaus," she began anew, "Have you seen Harry?" she asked, the worry still not evident due to the helmet and her eyes being hidden behind a reflection of the plexiglas eye shield.

Klaus frowned at her and turned around in search of the boy who he'd only just recently been talking to. Seeing an empty make-shift bench by its lonesome to the side of the tent, he let his eyes meet the boy's mother again.

"Harry?" he repeated, his voice growing confused. "I just talked to him. He was right here on the bench, watching the mechanics work on the car."

Lily eyed the man for a few moments and didn't make a move, her eyes averting from his and fogging slightly in contemplation. Making a split-second decision, Lily began undoing the chinstrap of her helmet and removed it, its sudden absence on her head showing her abnormally disheveled hair still statically charged, clung to her face and formed wild bundles.

"What are you doing, Lily, you're up in a few minutes?" The man reminded her, gesturing to his wristwatch in emphasis.

James, who'd finally noticed his wife's unusual display, left the mechanics mid-sentence and moved around the car to stand next to her.

"What's going on?" He asked.

Klaus and Lily turned toward him, having only just noticed his sudden appearance, and explained what had happened.

Tentatively listening to the pair with patience, he couldn't help but feel a sting of worry pain his heart. The thought that his son was nowhere to be found while the very important trial was minutes away from starting, threatened to rip him in two. However, it wouldn't do to lose his cool.

"I'm sure he's fine. He's probably just gone out to play adventure. Maybe he's sitting with another team and watching their work. If anything had happened, they would have announced a lost boy." The words came out calmer than he'd expected, and he almost believed them, had he not said them himself.

She, however, would hear none of it and ignored her husband as she suddenly placed the helmet on the driver seat of the car and began a stomping march out of the tent, leaving a confused James and Klaus behind.

Catching up with his wife a few moments later, James tried to grab her by the arm, only to close his hand around empty air. She had accelerated her steps.

"Lily, what are you doing?" he called again.

Huffing to herself, she didn't stop to talk, instead she pressed on confidently.

"I'm going to find my son."

"I gathered that, thank you," he said with an annoyed tone.

His wife's ear twitched at that and stopped in her tracks suddenly. James almost ran into her but caught himself in time to sidestep around her halted form, moving then to meet her gaze.

Instead of saying anything to her husband, Lily checked her environment and cast a quick notice-me-not charm over the both of them. With that, the pair would now seem invisible to the muggle eye and leave them undisturbed, unless someone accidentally ran into them. Lily couldn't care less at the moment as she moved her wand to cast a Homenum Revelio spell.

Shaking her head at the pings her charm had sent for every passing muggle, Lily sighed and decided to ask her husband for advice.

"What was the spell you used for your Marauder's Map? The one that told you where somebody was in real time?" She asked, her voice perfectly even.

Frowning at her, he let eyes wander the space behind her, as he tried to remember what she meant.

"I think it was the Homunculus charm that Remus used to create the trackers for the map, but you'd need a number of spells working in concert to really make it function. Using an off the shelf map won't work." He explained, shaking his head at her.

Not taking 'no' for an answer, Lily pushed further. "Then do you have another idea?"

James scratched his head again and considered other possible spells that could be used to track and find their son.

"What about Appare Vestigium? It's the spell they use in the Auror department for fleeing suspects. Perhaps that may help." The sometimes infuriating man could only shrug somewhat hopelessly.

Listening to his idea, Lily considered it before remembering something about that specific spell.

She shook her head dejectedly before explaining to her husband why it wouldn't work on someone like Harry. "That spell would be a brilliant idea," she began before letting her voice drop in disappointment, "But it only covers relatively small areas. We'd have to walk the entirety of the camp to catch a whiff of him. We don't have the time for that."

Her husband couldn't come up with any other viable solutions to find their missing son, which left Lily to sigh loudly. "One would think that a wizard or witch would have come up with a spell to track a specific individual whether they had magic or not." She muttered angrily, her eyes not looking at anything specific.

Shaking her head again, she cancelled the notice-me-not charm after checking that nobody would see them popping out from thin air. She turned instantly and continued to march toward the place she'd wanted to go to before James had made her consider other options.

James followed her without another word but soon reconsidered when he saw where she was going.

"Lily," he called again but she remained silent and continued to march with a single-minded purpose toward a small grouping of older men. He knew what she was about to do, and while he would do the same for his only son, at least one of the two of them had to keep a level head. Their actions not only had consequences for themselves but also for those who worked for and with them.

As soon as Lily reached the group of older men, she cleared her throat to announce her arrival and need to have their attention.

"Excuse me, sirs, but I'm afraid that I have need of that PA system of yours. I'm terribly sorry about the inconvenience, but my son seems to have up and disappeared and a brief announcement might help me find him," she explained calmly, hoping that she didn't seem like the overly worried mother that she was.

One of the men, his eyes hidden behind thickly framed sunglasses, got up and walked around the table to come stand before her, raising his gaze only slightly. Whether that was enough to actually look at her comfortably or not, she couldn't tell, as the eyes were perfectly hidden behind the large shaded lenses.

The man began nodding at her and opened his mouth to speak with a relatively thick French accent, the same voice that had announced the beginning of the Group B time trial a while ago now.

"Your son has gone missing?" he asked politely, the lower part of his face forming a kind smile. She nodded in confirmation while her cheeks reddened at the embarrassment she felt.

"Of course, we will certainly help you find him," he assured her before he eyed the couple's attire. The smile on the man's face flattened and a slight frown appeared instead, worrying her a tiny bit.

"Are you perhaps part of the Ford Group B team that is supposed to line up with the rest of the cars over there?" He pointed with a nod toward the line of cars parked along the road leading to the starting line.

"I'm afraid so, yes," she confirmed with trepidation.

Nodding slightly, the man moved to discuss something with the men behind him, gesturing to the watch on his arm, studying the schedule that lay on the table as well. A few moments later, and following a group of shaking heads, the older man turned back toward Harry's parents.

"Well, I'm sure your son's safety is more important to you than the time trial, and we will certainly help you find him. However, I'm afraid that you will have to accept a time penalty as the schedule can't be changed to accommodate a delay for personal reasons," he explained clearly, leaving no chance for misunderstandings.

James knew that there was no way to avoid a penalty at this point. He realized, however, he didn't care the slightest. The fact nobody had seen Harry, not even the race's organizer, had finally driven the fact home. They needed to find him; the trial be damned. Taking note of Lily vivid nodding, he stepped up to stand next to her, joining her affirmation.

"Thank you, Monsieur Martin, and we accept the time penalty without contestation on our team's behalf," she said with a confident nod.

The man, Monsieur Martin, then asked for Harry's basic physical traits as well as his outerwear and anything extraordinary about his appearance. Lily provided all of the needed information along with a personal photo she'd kept in her left inner breast pocket. The photo, though recent, was worn from the hardships of rally racing and the sweat that would build up over a long day's work.

Accepting the information, Monsieur Martin then walked toward the desk adorned with the microphone that was connected to a larger audio system, its long cables leading to a distributor box that fed the speakers around the larger camp.

He sat down, laying the notes and photo of the boy before him on the desk before pushing down on the button that engaged the microphone, the sound of a shh audible from the speaker that was closest to Lily.

James let sigh escape him, but it wasn't an angry one. He moved closer to his wife and let his hand rest on her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off, though she had considered doing so, and instead let her elbow fold to raise her hand to grasp his on her shoulder.

"This is Martin Gaul, your head marshal. Please be advised, we are looking for a young boy. His name is Harry Potter, he is 6 years old, black of hair and has green eyes. He bears a scar on his forehead and wears a Ford team t-shirt. If you see him or happen to have seen him, please approach the closest member of the staff and inform them."

After repeating the announcement in a few different languages, Monsieur Martin approached the parents and returned the photo of Harry. He also informed them that they could wait here until somebody came forward with information on their son's whereabouts.

Luckily it didn't take long until somebody called to inform them that they'd found their son and that they'd be welcome to come pick him up at their camp.

Lily waited until she learned who had found him and where she would have to go before she almost lurched forward to leave. James could only briefly express his gratitude for the help Monsieur Martin had provided before he too had to run to catch up with her.

###

Harry was the first to notice the pair of people marching toward them and quickly got up from the chair. Fleur, on the other side of the table between them, followed his focused gaze and noticed them as well.

He walked to the outer most part of the tent that was still under the cover of the plastic plane over his head and waited for the two adults with fear marring his features. He'd been naughty and was well aware that he'd get a decent talking-to once his parents would get their worried hands on him.

Fleur moved to stand next to him and hold his smaller hand, for which he was grateful, but she remained otherwise expressionless as they waited for his parents to arrive.

Jean stepped out from behind them and went to greet his parents, who smiled at him and shook his hand. They seemed to know one another well as his mother kissed him on the cheeks and said some French words, her face lined with deep gratitude.

His father eyed him over his mother's shoulder, his face mixed between disappointment and elation. He too turned to thank Fleur's father before trying to move around his wife to make his way over to Harry.

Lily caught him by the hand and halted her husband, who twisted his head to look back at her. The flat gaze the shorter woman gave him reminded Harry of the times his father had decided to go out with his uncle Sirius without having told her beforehand. It meant that she'd be doing the lecturing.

Jean turned and extended his hand toward the tent, inviting the parents inside to approach the two younger people. Lily nodded politely and began moving toward her son, her usually kind green eyes now stormy and dark with a mix of emotions Harry could scarcely begin to identify.

"Harry," she began seriously, "We've been all around the camp looking for you."

Her tone was strict, the hands placed on her hips cutting a strict figure that made Harry shrink in on himself slightly. Normally pink lips thinned into a barely discernible white line, a not so promising signal of what was to come. But Harry was not one to remain cowed for long. He was his mother's son, after all. Looking up into his mother's eyes, his own green orbs pleading for her to understand and not make a scene in front of his new friend.

"I was bored and walked off for a bit. I thought you and Daddy wouldn't mind if I came back when you finished with your race," he quickly argued, attempting to save himself from suffering embarrassment in front of the strangers who had been nothing but kind to him.

Lily listened to his pleading but didn't let her face soften, despite the fact that his pleading eyes were always able to melt her heart.

"Harry, darling, you've worried us sick. Everyone around the camp had to drop everything and come look for you. You've even imposed on other people's generosity," she lectured to him with a stern voice. She hated punishing her son but she would have hated it more if he learned to get away with careless behavior. James was proof enough of that, at times.

"I didn't think it would cause trouble if I just went for a walk," he muttered, unable to meet her sharp gaze.

James shook his head at his son and bent down to sit on his heels, grasping the young boy's thing arms that reminded him of his own at that age, urging him to raise his gaze to his own.

"Son, you've caused a fair share of trouble today. You won't be getting out of this one with tears and playing cute," he warned him, his tone rougher than he'd intended.

Fleur then moved to step between Harry and his parents, letting an arm come to rest on his shoulder. "He was perfectly polite the entire time. He has been a good boy, I promise you. It was no trouble at all." She hated that the serious speech she'd prepared had come out as little more than nervous babbling, partly an issue borne from English not being her native language.

Lily turned to look at the young girl and gave her a genuine smile. "Thank you, Fleur. I'm sure he's been the perfect gentleman. But I'm afraid this is something that can't be allowed to be repeated. He will have to sit through a proper dressing down for this."

Fleur, unable to rectify Harry's looming reprimand, could do nothing but continue to hold him by the shoulder in silence. She looked over to the side of the face and noticed his downtrodden expression. Intending to comfort him again, she moved her hand to hold him closer to herself.

Suddenly, she pulled her hand away again and took a step back. Lily noticed this exchange and reached for the girl, trying to see what was wrong. Fleur, in her sudden and uncharacteristic nervousness, didn't let her and took another step back.

"Something wrong sweetheart?" Lily inquired worriedly.

Hearing Lily address Fleur directly, Jean moved to stand next to the two of them, Harry still standing a few steps to the side. His green eyes took in the pair's exchange with confusion.

"What's wrong, little sparrow?" he asked his daughter, his eyes worried and his hand reaching for her.

She rubbed the arm that had been on Harry's shoulder just a few moments before, the cold sensation slowly receding again. Once her hand had returned to its usual temperature, she turned to her father and explained what had happened in French.

Jean nodded slowly at his daughter and returned his attention to the Potters standing together now. He cleared his throat and focused on Lily's curious look.

"She says he sometimes feels cold to the touch. She just jumped at the sudden sensation," he explained, gesturing at his own arm's skin.

Harry's mother frowned at that and looked at her son's perfectly adequate attire. Harry feeling cold to the touch? she wondered.

It made no sense to her. He wore a t-shirt, yes, but the weather was hot enough to make her sweat under her overalls. Harry didn't look like somebody who'd been cold enough to shock people.

Shaking her head at the bizarre nature of the encounter between her son and the young girl, Lily felt a hand touch her shoulder. Looking at the arm and then the face it belonged to, she noticed James' pointed finger tapping the glass surface of his wristwatch. Nodding at him quickly, they agreed wordlessly that she had to table the matter as the time was running and their team's position worsened with every passing second.

Moving to lift Harry and carry him in the crook of her arm, Lily stepped back toward Jean, thanking him and her for finding her son before saying goodbye before rushing out with quick steps back toward the Ford team tent.

Harry, still in his mother's arms, turned his head back and gazed over her shoulder at Fleur who still stood next to her father watching the Potter family leave. He raised a small hand and waved at the pair of them as they crossed the crest of the hill and quickly descended down the other side and beyond the Delacours' line of sight.

###

Back at the camp, Lily and James had to apologize profusely to the rest of the team, who'd looked at them in quiet anger. They understood that Lily and James had made the decision that mattered most to them but the entire situation, according to their words, could have been avoided if they'd left Harry at home in England.

Klaus, who liked Harry well enough, finding the young boy to be a kind happy child, couldn't hide his own flat look at the pair but didn't add to the fire of complaints. Instead, he went to calm the team members and urged Harry's parents to rush for the starting line and save what was left of the time trial.

"We can still get something out of this. Even if we don't get a good time in, we can say we tried," he stated quickly.

Lily could only nod at that and rushed to prepare herself, grabbing her helmet and zipping up her overall.

Lily, James, and Klaus were people who didn't believe in lost chances - only in chances not taken. Therefore, he helped Lily into the car and made sure she was securely seated in it.

Starting the engine, Lily let her eyes wander quickly to the side, to look through the protective plexiglass door window at her son, who still looked down at his feet in remorse.

Her heart stung at the sight of sagging shoulders hanging off her boy's small frame. Forcing herself to ignore her maternal instincts, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the task that lay ahead.

Engaging the first gear, she let out the clutch some and the car bobbed forward, forcing Lily and James' protected heads bounce against their headrests.

After a number of turns around the camp of the sporting event, they found their way to the starting line, stopping at the red light with a 10-second counter displaying the '10' in clear glowing red.

The head marshal, Monsieur Martin, approached them from the light and opened James' door.

"Have you found your boy safe and sound?" he asked curiously.

James spoke before Lily could, nodding appreciatively at the Frenchman. "Yes, we've found him with Jean Delacour, as your man had said. Thank you again, Monsieur."

"Good, that's good," he began before he checked his watch and the schedule in his hand. James watched the sweat change directions as the man flipped his hand over to look between both.

"The car in front of you was the last to go. That was approximately 5 minutes ago. You will receive a 6-minute penalty to your time. Are we all clear on the 'why'?" he asked specifically, watching both drivers in the car.

"Yes." they answered at the same time, nodding at the man's question.

Monsieur Martin nodded back at them and wished them luck before closing James' door with a loud thud.

Moving her focus back on the car and the road ahead, Lily went through all the lights and pedals, checking for alarms or mechanical failures. Satisfied with the overall condition of the car, Lily gave a thumbs up at the marshal sitting by the timer.

The man then nodded at her and went to type something into his recorder - probably registering their starting time and number.

The heat in her overalls made her sweat profusely, fingers pulling at her collar for at least a small respite from the overbearing heat. Aware that she wasn't permitted to open it, she moved to push open the small square sliding window in her door.

"10-second countdown initiated," James called from beside her.

"Check." she answered without looking, her face still enjoying the cool air coming from the small window.

The air flowing over her face reminded her of Fleur's comment on Harry's temperature.

Why would he feel cold to her touch?

"5 seconds, Lily," James called again.

Why would he feel cold to 'her' touch? How would a Veela feel co-

Her eyes widened in shock and her jaw dropped inside her helmet. Looking over to her husband, a spark of inspiration drove her to call out his name.

"James!" The suited woman yelled and began to wave her hand excitedly.

Looking at her in confusion and with narrowed eyes, he waited for her to tell him whatever it was she wanted.

"Harry," she said louder, "I think he can do magic!"

Still not sure what his wife was yelling about, James turned to look at the counter. Seeing that the green light had already been given, he shrieked in panic.

"Lily, Go, Go, Go!"

Noticing his alarm, she followed his gaze and before he could say another word, she floored the pedal and dropped the clutch. The car lurched forward with the grace of a bull stung by a bee, thrashing through the gravel with uncompromising acceleration.

###

The wailing of sirens and the rushing shadows of panicked people roamed through and around the entirety of the camp. Harry wasn't sure what was going on but the faces on the people around him seemed struck with something he'd never seen on somebody else's before.

Seeing Mr. Rickard standing stiffly outside the tent, Harry got off the make-shift bench again and walked toward the unmoving man.

"Mr. Rickard?" he called him, but the man remained unaware of the young boy's presence, continuing to stand motionless and staring into the distance at a rising cloud of black smoke.

"Mr. Rickard, are you alright?" Harry repeated again, pulling at the man's sleeve. The physical stimulus seemed to have done the trick as the man jerked at the touch. Turning to the side with a confused look, he slowly lowered his gaze toward Harry's tiny frame, the man's eyes became heavy. The brown eyes dulled over by wetness.

"Harry…" he began.

Mr. Rikard looked at Harry with what seemed like indecision. The man continued to glance at him gingerly before looking away entirely, suddenly moving toward the mass of people meeting near the marshal's post.

Harry watched him go, confused by the man's sudden change in demeanor. He'd always talked to him, laughed with him, told him jokes and been an all-around joyful man.

Now, he'd been a stranger. Someone else entirely.

Noticing how nobody was left in the tent, leaving him to be by his lonesome, Harry eyed the gravel road behind him. He'd taken that road to find Fleur and the Peugeot. Perhaps he could go see her again.

He considered the idea and remembered his parents' disappointment in his actions from before. However, he reasoned that since they were already on the road, he couldn't possibly disturb anyone again if he went to visit Fleur. Even if his parents would have to come look for him again, they'd know where he would be and wouldn't have to ask anyone for help. Therefore, the punishment from before would remain but another added punishment would be unlikely.

Harry nodded at the train of thought. It felt like a sensible conclusion. Perhaps, he would impress his mother with his line of thinking.

Looking around for people watching him, he made sure that nobody was in fact in his vicinity and began to run toward Fleur's tent.

###

Fleur could hear the emergency sirens in the distance and smell the burned air with her heightened senses. She wasn't sure what was going on but her father's rushed disappearance, along with other team members, indicated that something terrible had happened.

The sound of gravel crunching in the distance alerted her to a person approaching from the hill that led to the wide-open area in front of their tent.

She could see him running quickly, as fast as his short legs allowed, his face reddened by lengthy physical exercise.

Having noticed her expectant appearance, Harry slowed his run to a jog before slowing down to a normal walk. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he breathed heavily in front of her. She walked over to him with a bottle of cold water in her hand.

"Here, drink this, it will make you feel better," she said.

Looking at it, he accepted the offering, thanking her before drinking from it. His gulps were greedy, downing the liquid quickly and letting large bubbles of air into the bottle.

His thirst quenched, he wiped his hand over his mouth and returned the plastic bottle back to her. She took it, went back to the tent to fetch a marker to write his name on the bottle and placed the bottle back in the refrigerator.

Walking back to him, she eyed him curiously. "What are you doing here again? Didn't your parents tell you not to run off without them?"

He nodded at her with a smile. "Yeah, they did but they're out on a drive right now and they know where I'll be. Although, I don't know if that will make a difference."

His face suddenly clenched in a frown at this last statement.

"What do you mean?" she asked further, encouraging him to continue.

"Mr. Rickard was all weird, and the entire team up and left me by myself. When my parents come back, they'll have many more people to look for other than me," he explained.

Shaking her head at him, she giggled at his argument, finding it quite amusing how he figured things would turn out.

Looking back at him, she noticed how his eyes fixated on a point behind her. She turned to see what he was staring at, only to smile at him when she let her gaze travel back to him.

"So," she began, drawing his attention to her, "Do you want to try sitting in it again? This time, nobody is around." She saw no harm in dangling a figurative carrot in front of his face.

He jumped up at that and rushed past her toward the car behind her, his body fidgeting by the door as he waited for her to open it for him. Extending her hand in invitation to step inside, Harry raised a leg to cross over the roll bar that lined the side of the bucket seat inside.

Before he could commit to the move, Fleur's father's voice rang through the tent, alarming the two that they were, in fact, not alone after all.

"Oh, not again!" Harry complained with a whine, removing his leg from its position on the metal pipe.

"I'm sorry," Fleur said quickly with pursed lips. "I thought I could get you in this time."

He shrugged at that but didn't let it affect him too much. He just decided to stand there and pout to himself, kicking a piece of gravel across the road and outside the tent.

As Jean neared the tent, he noticed Harry's presence and slowed his steps with trepidation, his face growing apprehensive.

Fleur noticed how her father gazed at Harry, a sense of fear spreading in her chest. She moved to stand next to the shorter boy and placed a hand on his shoulder - the same way as she did when his parents came to pick him up.

As her father approached them and finally bent down to meet Harry without the latter having to twist his neck to look up at him, she could see how her father's jaw clenched, a clear sign that he struggled with what he was about to say.

Harry, still unsure about what was going on, eyed Fleur at his side in question before turning his curious, green orbs to the man who gave him the apprehensive look.

"What's wrong, Mr. Delacour?" he asked him worriedly.

With a heavy breath, Jean cleared his throat and swallowed. "Harry, do you know where your parents are?"

Confused by the question, he tilted his head at the man before him. "They should be back at the camp by now. Or maybe they're still on their way back from their drive."

Jean shook his head lightly at the boy, his face wry with regret. "I'm afraid not, Harry."

The frown on his face deepened at that. "Huh?"

"Harry, I...they...there's been an accident," Jean finally confessed.

"What do you mean, 'there's been an ac-acdissent'?" The boy repeated with a struggle, his voice growing frustrated.

Jean sighed tiredly at him, while glancing briefly at his daughter, whose face drew a picture of realization.

Gazing back at Harry, Jean knew then that he had to make the boy understand. There was no cushion soft enough to prevent the pain that would come from his words, once they'd left his mouth.

"Harry...your parents...they're gone…and they're not coming back."

Whatever Jean had said after that, Harry hadn't registered. All he could hear was an increasingly loud buzz in his ears that dulled the sound of the world around him. He could feel a pair of hot arms wrapped around him but otherwise he couldn't feel anything.

He noticed his legs give out from under him, the gravel pinching at his face and the taste of iron in his mouth. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy. He felt tired. Perhaps he should close his eyes and nap.

Yes, he'd sleep here. Sleep here until his parents would come pick him up. They always did.

End of Prologue

###


	2. A Normal Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, thanks for the reviews, kudos and subs; I didn’t think my fic would attract that much attention right off the bat, given how AU it is.
> 
> Betas: My thanks also go out to my dear betas Crippled Witcher and Darkened Void for their time looking for my odd lingual quirks and bad habits. Kudos!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter nor the mentioned brand names. They belong to their respective creators.

**Chapter 1:** A Normal Life

**8 years later...**

**August 20th, 1994**

Black Manor, London, England

Harry jerked at the sharp beeping sound of his alarm, squeezing his eyes shut and folding his pillow to cover his ears to dull the annoying sound. But no matter how he went about it, the alarm kept stabbing at his drowsiness. Bit by bit, the noise cut away at the dreamworld he’d built in his sleep, the vague shapes and forms disappearing from his inner eye’s sight, his memory of them quickly crumbling before he could try and remember.

Slowly opening his eyes to the sunlight coming through the Venetian shutters that illuminated the dust that hovered in the air, he sighed in defeat and raised his heavy and wobbly arm to hone in on the enemy laying siege to his sleep.

At the sound of a lazy but clear knock, Harry knew instantly that he wouldn’t even be able to squeeze in another five minutes, blinking rapidly to let his tired eyelids get used to the idea of working. 

“Up you get, mate. Rise and shine and  _ carpe diem _ or whatever the people tell themselves to get up from bed every day,” Sirius greeted with an equally tired voice, his unkempt demeanour portraying the same disdain for the alarm as Harry did.

“I’m up,” Harry muttered into the pillow, a groan escaping his chapped lips.

“I know how you feel but it’s still a weekday, so up and off to work with you.”

Harry finally accepted that he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep and slowly pulled his thick comforter off himself, carefully steadying his body with his hand on the mattress. Rubbing at his eyes, he cleared his vision of the residual crumbs of sleep before taking another look at his godfather. 

“How is it that you can lounge about all day in this ginormous estate of yours and I have to work?”. 

Sirius snorted in amusement at the valid question, a point that Harry had raised on many occasions when he’d taken extra notice of his godfather’s laidback lifestyle. 

Considering the man’s seemingly uncaring behaviour when he was at home, Harry had brought up the question many times over the past eight years. It wouldn’t be the last time Sirius would reply in the same manner he’d always done so far. It would always be the same, both comforting and vexing simultaneously. Sirius would take the mickey out of his godson.

“Well, as I’ve already told you many times before, and I really don’t mind repeating it for you again, I’m from the aristocracy. So, I can lounge about as  _ much _ as I please. Second, I’ve got loads of money, so I can lounge  _ wherever _ I please. And third, you have  _ neither _ of these things and are therefore obliged to make quid to aspire toward what I already have: independence.” The older man held up three fingers to visually express the legitimacy of his arguments, his long black hair bedraggled.

“Not unless I pass and bequeath my title and possessions to you. And last I checked, I’m in perfect health and in no need of even writing up a will. So work it is for you, mate,” he added before Harry could argue his extremely well thought out points.

Harry gave him an even stare, having heard that line more often than he could count.

“One day, you’ll need to change up that answer of yours. Do, at least, make it entertaining so I won’t actually fall over dead from excess boredom.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Alas, you have figured out my true intentions, my dear godson.” Sirius cackled at his own, rather flat, joke.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Harry hated Sirius for his cruel sense of humour, but he appreciated it all the same, as well. His godfather, despite the privilege and honour his parents had given him - Sirius’ words - had an uncanny ability to remain grounded. It was a trait he’d yet to discover in most other people. And while he’d moved in and been raised by Sirius since his parents’ passing, he’d barely learned anything about the man that could be construed as ‘intimate knowledge’. Sirius clearly cared for him, as any foster parent chosen by real parents probably would, but Sirius still maintained a certain distance from him that he couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t physical distance but, rather, a distance he’d just  _ felt _ in his mannerisms and odd choice of words.

“Are you getting up?” Sirius interrupted his musings, reminding him that he still had to get out of bed and begin his morning routine of getting ready for his part-time job at the bookstore. It wasn’t far away but he’d begun cutting the time from waking up to arriving at his place of employment down to mere minutes. It had become an efficient routine but recently he’d begun dragging his feet in the mornings, leaving himself only a handful of minutes to take care of the one-off household chores Sirius had given him recently.

“Yeah, give me a moment. I’ll be downstairs shortly.” He yawned, forcing himself to slide off the bedsheet and land on his feet, the wooden floor giving off a loud  _ creak _ .

Satisfied with his godson’s response, Sirius nodded at the boy and turned to walk toward the staircase, leaving Harry to listen to the wood groaning under the man’s bouncing weight.

Left alone with his thoughts again, Harry contemplated what was on the day’s agenda. His job at the bookstore would start in about half an hour, ten of which he would need for the walk there. That would leave him with about twenty minutes to shower, get dressed and have a bite. Any more delay than that would force him to run.

Realizing that time was moving and waiting for no one, he shook himself awake and went to fetch some fresh clothes from the shelf in his cupboard. He then tip-toed over the colder floor outside his room into the bathroom, his face grimacing whenever he touched a particularly chilly spot. 

_ This house needs more carpets or some damn floor heating _ , he groaned inwardly.

About ten minutes later, he entered the kitchen, where one of the housemaids had prepared a meal for him. A cup of tea sat patiently by a few newspapers, steam curling from its surface in invitation. Smiling to himself in anticipation of tasting said drink, he dropped himself in one of the chairs at the breakfast table close to the sink where his de-facto foster mother was leaning casually. 

“Morning Harry,” she greeted him with a singing voice.

“Morning Celine,” he responded flatly in protest to her obvious good mood.

While she was the head of the house staff, a female butler if you will, she was far more than just that to him. Celine had taken to him as a mother would to a lost child, only she’d never referred to herself as such and never claimed she was anything more than what she was hired to do. 

When he was much younger and would wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night, screaming for his parents, she would come rushing to his side of the bed and hold him. She embraced him until his cries rendered him exhausted in his grief more, but even then she would continue to hold his hand until he’d drifted back to sleep. Sometimes he had even found her sitting on a stool by the bed, her head laying on the sheet and her hand still holding onto his loosely. 

She’d continued to care for him so intimately until he’d grown a bit older and found her fussing and hovering nature too overwhelming. While he’d noticed an evident look of hurt on her face when’d lashed out at her, she’d never seemed like she’d taken it as a sign to stop. 

Instead of mothering him like the way she’d done before, she’d taken a step back and begun taking care of him without his notice. He’d gained what he felt was more control over his life but remained otherwise unaware of the things she’d still do for him anyway. The breakfast that was sitting on the table in front of him may have been prepared by the other members of the staff, but he would be correct to assume, she’d made sure it was the way he liked it. 

He would never complain about things being off or not according to what he was used to. Harry dearly appreciated the things being done for him since his arrival over eight years ago. Back then he’d been a very difficult child to deal with, of that he was certain. 

“I see you’ve just gotten out of bed. At least, that’s what people will think when they see you,” Celine observed with a grin forming on her lips, her eyes travelling over his head.

Self-consciously stroking at his hair, trying and failing to make it submit to him, he grimaced at her.

“Well, it is what it is. This hair will never stay the way I want it. And please, stop reminding me. You’ve suffered through it just as much.” 

“I know but where’s the fun in that?” Celine shrugged at him happily.

“Why should there be fun at my expense? Am I a joke to you?”

“No, of course not, but let me enjoy the small things while I still can. One day, you’ll be gone and there won’t be anybody left to tease,” she moaned with a hand raised to her forehead, her grin not leaving her face.

“There’s still Sirius. He seems to appreciate the odd tease.” The teenage boy eyed her mischiefly before adding, ”And, also, I can’t wait to get away from the lot of you.”

“Oh hush, you secretly love this,” she teased back with a smile.

“Again, not really. And again, Sirius surely would,” he repeated while he took a ginger sip from his tea. It wouldn't do to burn his tongue in front of her. She would take that as an invitation to treat him like a child. She would absolutely love to blow on the tea for him, same as when he was much younger. Her love of embarrassing him caused him no small amount of grief, though he would never admit that he loved her for it all the same.

“Ouch, such harsh words from one so young. The ladies won’t appreciate being brushed off so easily,” she faux-complained, turning back toward the sink to clean.

Rolling his eyes at her, Harry shook his head and took another sip from his tea. “You are hardly a lady, Celine. You’re more like my nanny. Nannies don’t count.” 

It was a statement of fact, rather than a comment made to cause hurt. It was  _ their _ normal, nice even.

The woman turned her head toward him, a snicker waiting barely contained behind her lips. “Last I checked, statistics indicate that most nannies are boys’ first love. So be nice to me and I might just give you a smooch,” she explained, giving him a small, teasing wink.

Harry huffed as an involuntary need to shudder rolled off his shoulders. “That’s bollocks. There isn’t a statistic for that.”

“Language, Harry,” she admonished him with a sudden stern look, her displeasure at the use of the expletive comparable to a dragon having a single coin stolen from its hoarded treasure.

“Sorry,” he muttered before thinking of a less vulgar word that would express the same sense of vehement disagreement. ” _ Rubbish _ ?”

“Better.”

At the approving nod coming from the woman, Harry cleared his throat and began his attempt to disagree anew. “Rubbish, there isn’t a statistic for first loves of boys raised by nannies,” he repeated the earlier statement.

“Not a public one, but you know, we ‘nannies’,” Celine said using her index fingers for emphasis, ”keep score. Each boy we ensnare is marked on our scoresheet.” 

Her counter to his argument delivered, she let her eyebrows waggle up and down at him, making him roll his eyes at her

“You’re a devious witch, you know that? Feeding me until I’m ripe for the taking. Where’s the oven you’ll be roasting me in then? Hansel and Gretel’s witch has nothing on you, Celine.” Harry couldn’t help but snicker at his own joke. He’d spent far too much time with Sirius.

Shock ran across Celine’s face but disappeared instantly. Instead of responding to his comment, she shrugged at him, raising a hand in defeat and turning back to her task. She didn’t speak up again and remained otherwise occupied with her duties, leaving Harry to sit in silence.

Shaking his head at her sudden departure from their banter, he, too, turned his attention away from her and back to his meal and the newspapers. The news didn’t really offer anything he’d find even remotely interesting, allowing him to accelerate the speed with which he ate the food and drank his tea.

Finishing his meal, he got ready to leave, saying his goodbyes to both Celine and Sirius on his way out, the door slamming closed behind him signalling his departure.

After a few moments of silence where the grandfather clock was the only sound in the house, Celine’s footsteps could be heard making their way over to where Sirius sat in the living room. Sitting down across from him, taking off her apron and loosening her tightly bound bun, she let a tense sigh leave her body. Her freed brunette hair cascaded down her neck, and with a bit of ruffling, fell around her shoulders more aesthetically.

Feeling more comfortable, she let herself fall back on the expensive furniture and eyed the carefully chosen objects garnishing the room. While the unmoving portraits of previous heads of House Black that hung on the walls were brought in by Sirius, she could lay claim to having organized almost everything else in the new house. Celine had made sure that, despite Sirius’s family tendency to choose more high quality and fragile furniture, she focused on making it a home for a child to grow up in, not grow miserable.

Eyeing the backside of Sirius’ newspaper, she cleared her throat to announce her presence and draw his attention to herself.

“It’s been eight years since he’s come to us and I still jump whenever he makes mentions of anything related to magic. Like he’d finally noticed or he’d caught me doing something,” She recounted while she massaged her eyes and began folding her apron on her lap.

Sirius, who until this point had not spoken to her, lowered his newspaper and looked at her with an intimate smile. He still wore his house robe over his grey sweatpants and his favourite Metallica t-shirt, his hair also in the same unkempt state it had been when he’d gone to check in on his godson earlier. 

Celine clenched her jaws at the man’s careless appearance, his choice of clothing not summoning as much swagger as he thought it did. If she didn’t love him as much as she did and didn’t care for Harry as if he was her own, she would have never persevered thus far as a ‘housemaid’.

“Good Morning to you too, my dear,” he greeted her. “And yes, he surely has given us the occasional scare. I find myself thinking, sometimes secretly  _ hoping _ , that it would be the moment we’d finally be able to tell him everything. Unless he makes the connection himself and asks us point-blank if there is magic. Until such time, we can’t tell him of our own accord.”

Sirius explained it again to her, his choice of words well-practised and coming off as something that he’d often end up telling himself in a mirror.

“But why wait? What if he will never connect the dots? I’m sure Lily didn’t mean for him to never experience it.” Celine’s words were tinged with light frustration.

Playing with his Black family ring that adorned his hand, he eyed the expensive carpet on the floor that warmed their feet and protected them from the cold beneath it. “I promised Lily and James that we’d never tell him if he didn’t show any specks of performing magic. Until he does or sees us do magic, he is not to be told,” he repeated again, having had this conversation many times before.

“Yes, I know, I was there when you swore that oath. It was the same oath I had to take along with being his godparents should anything ever happen.” She groaned, massaging the bridge of her nose.

Sirius eyed her with regret at her mention of being his godparent as well, the sense of guilt stabbing at his heart for the woman he loved sitting opposite from him. Her luscious brown hair framed her heart shaped-face that held the wise and vivid looking grey eyes looking back at him, waiting expectantly for his next response.

“I’m sorry for how things turned out for both of us. I really am. I wish we could have made it official, but your family wouldn’t agree to a marriage where you’d have to hide what you were. They’d also never agree to hide their nature for the sake of one boy.”

A small smile that barely reached her eyes formed on her smooth-looking face. It was an act of intimacy, one she had to hide whenever they weren’t alone and otherwise in plain view of onlookers. Placing the nicely folded apron on the coffee table next to her, she placed her hands on the arm of the chair and pushed herself up slowly. With a seductive sway to her body, she walked up to him and, with her bare index finger, forced the newspaper to flatten against Sirius’ chest. He in turn folded the paper and put it next to him on the couch, freeing the space for her to turn and lower herself on his lap. Leaning against his chest, she let her head rest in the nook of his neck, her forehead touching his bearded jawline.

“I never regretted agreeing to this,” she began with a whisper, sure that only he would hear her speak. “The time we’ve spent together thus far has been a dream to me. Even if I can’t refer to ourselves as husband and wife, Harry is still our boy for all intents and purposes, and magic or not, married or not, that doesn’t change one bit of what this is. We’re a family.”

At the proclamation of the love she held for him, Sirius dared a chaste kiss which she returned. He moved his hand along her arm while she held his other hand in hers.

“It won’t be forever,” he promised. “If he never connects the dots, he’ll naturally plan his life accordingly and move out sooner or later. He’ll leave and find his way in the world without us and magic.”

Listening to his words, she could see how that might be a very real possibility. They’d been as careful as they could about magic not finding its way into Harry’s life and perhaps it was for the best. It didn’t stop her from feeling a sting of pain at the high likelihood that he may never really  _ know  _ them as much as she truly wished.

“Perhaps,” Sirius continued carefully, ”When the time comes, I’ll obliviate his memories of us and he’ll be free and won’t ever have to find out.”

At his last utterance, Celine jerked forward and straightened her back. Turning her body and twisting her neck to be able to look at him with both eyes, she made sure to eye him with the most disapproving look she could muster.

“I don’t think I would ever agree to that, Sirius. Not knowing about us is one thing. Forgetting us is completely different.” Her voice was laden with heat that radiated against his face.

Aware that he’d spoken out of turn and said something unbecoming of a godparent, he looked away in regret and moved his hand to hold hers in reassurance. 

“I’m sorry, my dear. I just spend too much time in my own head sometimes. Lily would often complain about my habits of doing things before thinking about them first. And while James shared a portion of that  _ bad  _ behaviour, he’d agree with her assessment wherever his son was concerned.” 

Hearing him mention their friends’ names so intimately again, she couldn’t help but smile at her memories she’d shared with Lily. She’d met the younger witch at Hogwarts in their youth, herself in Slytherin and the redhead in Gryffindor. Thinking back, she could scarcely believe how well she’d gotten along with her despite the house rivalry being in full swing at the time.

Lily couldn’t have cared less about loyalty lines and the espoused virtues of each house. When Celine had first rebuffed her and sent her on her merry way back to the Gryffindor table, after the redhead had asked for a tip on an arithmancy formula, she saw that it wouldn’t remain unanswered. The refusal had seemingly sparked a challenge in the girl’s head and since their first verbal encounter, the Gryffindor had pestered her at any given opportunity. She’d continued to pester the Slytherin witch until one day they’d found themselves laughing at a mistake the arithmancy professor had made during a lecture. They had been inseparable since the detention session that followed, studying together and dreaming of applying for apprenticeships after they’d completed their NEWTs.

Things turned out to be different when Harry was born. Lily was wholly devoted to her son and despite having still thought of working her way toward a Mastery in Arithmancy, the unusual condition of her infant boy had put a hold on her plans. Since her friend had found out that her son may not possess magic, she’d changed and begun to interact with the muggle part of her life more seriously, building a foundation for a career in muggle motorsports instead of their youthful dreams of getting their masteries together.

Celine knew of her friend’s  _ hobby _ and had often accompanied her to her race weekends during their holidays between semesters at Hogwarts in the mid-70s. She had, however, felt quite out of place with each time she’d gone along. Being left sitting on a bench somewhere in the stands while she observed her friend make her turns around the circular track, hadn’t piqued her curiosity. The ogling muggles, who’d for unknown reasons decided to converge on her waiting position, had struck her as lacking decorum, further deepening her dislike for their kind.

In the years that passed after Harry’s birth in 1980, both Lily and James made a name for themselves in the muggle motorsports community, receiving trophies and accolades for their successes. It was, therefore, all the more surprising and gut-wrenching to receive the sad news on the fateful morning of April 29th in 1986. Their sudden departure sent rippling waves throughout both worlds, the muggle as well as the magical.

Feeling a nudge to her shoulder, she shook herself out of her musings, turning to see Sirius’ worried gaze studying her. Shaking her head at him to relieve his worried gaze, she straightened her back and put a content smile on her face.

“You’ve had to change to meet the challenge that was fatherhood. Anyone would feel the way you do. I’m sure Lily and James would be proud of us and how well we’ve managed to raise Harry. _ I’m _ ,” she emphasized, “proud of how well you’ve done with him. He’s grown to be a good boy and, eventually, he’ll be a good man.”

Sirius smiled at her show of sentimentality, leaning himself forward to rest his head against her shoulder. Clearing his throat, the moist lump moved to make way for his quiet voice.

“I still find myself wondering how it is, that I, who everyone deemed reckless and careless, got to live the life that should have rightfully been theirs,” Sirius mentioned, disbelief weighing on his words.

Celine eyed him carefully, considering her next words wisely. “They chose to pursue muggle sports and, as such, they chose to adhere to the extremist regulations of the statute of secrecy. They had to act per the rules; no magic in muggle activities. Nobody forced them to mingle among muggles.” 

She paused for effect, the sigh that escaped her lips evoking a sense of guilt at the words that followed. “Their death was a terrible accident in a time where many muggles, in that sport, lost their lives regularly. They both knew the risks and decided to steam ahead regardless. Orphaning Harry was always a realistic possibility, and they chose to pursue their passion all the same.”

Sirius nodded in response and agreed with her retelling of facts. He understood very well what drove the pair to muggle motorsports. It was, after all, partially his fault that James had developed an interest in it. “If only I had been with them, I could have done something. I could have saved them.”

Sirius didn’t add anything after that and Celine recognized that he would remain adamant about some of the fault lying at his feet, regardless of whether it was warranted or not.

She decided then to cheer him up and help lift the heaviness in the air of the room, her eyes glancing for a moment at one sunny patch on the carpet. Getting up off his lap, she strode toward the chair she had previously sat on and took the neatly folded apron to the kitchen and returned with an umbrella instead, an encouraging smile plastered on her face.

“You fancy a walk?” she asked, tilting her head and pointing toward the door with her thumb. “I reckon a good long walk through the park might just lighten the mood. The sun is out and who knows, maybe we’ll find an empty bench to eat a sandwich or two.”

Sirius drew his eyes away from his feet, looking at her with relief. The weight of the previous conversation slowly flowed off of him.

“Sure, I’d accompany you anywhere, my dearest Celine.”

Getting up from the chair, he quickly ran up the stairs and disappeared for what seemed only mere moments. Suddenly appearing again with a change of clothes that looked like he should have at least spent a few more minutes putting on, he walked over to where she stood at the door and put on his coat and shoes. Looking themselves over in the mirror, they smiled at their reflections.

“Shall we?” he asked her expectantly, offering his arm to her.

“We shall,” she returned, putting her arm through his as they stepped outside into the sunny morning.

###

**About a ten minute walk away...**

_ Bartholomew’s Literary Corner _ , London, England

Harry’s huffing as he crashed through the door to his place of work raised the attention of the people inside. His superior at the cash register raised an eyebrow at him, to which Harry could only smile shyly.

“I know, I’m sorry. I had a red wave the entire way here,” he placated, raising his hand in apology.

The man opposite of him returned a bored stare of disbelief, pursing his lips to moisten them for his response. “Last I checked, Mr Potter, you  _ walk  _ here. You don’t drive and you don’t ride a bike. You don’t even use a bus or the Underground. How is it then that you apply traffic congestion to your excuse?”

Harry shrugged innocently at him. “I am a respectable member of society, Mr Carlson. I don’t run through traffic nor do I oppose the will of the red man.”

The man shook his grey-haired head at that, returning his bespectacled gaze toward the magazine he had spread out in front of him on the desk.

“Well, get changed and check on the new deliveries. We’ve also got customers coming to pick up some orders by eleven. I don’t want to explain to them how my youngest hire is the cause of their displeasure," the older man complained, raising his head to pierce Harry with an intense stare."Again.”

Nodding wryly, he couldn't disagree with the man's statement. “Yes, sir. I won’t disappoint,” Harry replied obediently as he rushed past Mr Carlson and toward the storage room where the lockers were.

After getting changed and checking himself in the mirror for anything other than his messy hair and making sure his unattractive scar from an accident in his childhood was well hidden, he left to check in the new arrivals.

The piles of smaller boxes that were stacked by the dozens, wiggling when touched, threatened to collapse and bury him under masses upon masses of newly printed books. Studying the boxes, he began playing a larger game of Jenga, carefully removing the topmost boxes and opening them once they were safely placed on the cart next to him.

He noticed a line of books in one of the boxes to be delivered to a person whose name he was quite familiar with. The bushy head of hair, to which the name belonged to, was almost daily a visitor at the small, humble business.

“Hermione," he mused, "if it weren’t for you, this place would have gone bust ages ago.”

He began stacking the new books on the cart after having carefully stripped them of their see-through packaging. Splitting the stacks between those meant for the shelf behind the counter for pick-ups and one for the restocking of empty spots on the shelves for displays, Harry made his way across the bookstore’s space. He was forced to carefully navigate the cart around the quietly studying customers who were deeply focused on their musings over the books in front of them.

The work might have been repetitive but it was simple and paid well enough, and Harry met new people every day. Also, the smell of books reminded him of his parents’ house with its large library. He’d often found his mother spending hours upon hours going through ancient-looking books, uttering strange phrases only to stop when she’d discover him spying on her.

It had been strange but if there was one thing that always seemed to bring a smile to his godfather’s face, it would be the oddness Harry associated with his parents. He wondered if they had been truly an odd couple or if his younger self had simply misperceived them as such. 

“Who really knew their parents at that age”, he wondered. “Weren’t they all wonder and magic to any child?”

Lost in his musings, he’d failed to notice his dazed appearance in the middle of the store, the customers having to walk around him, their eyes glancing across his unmoving features.

“Harry!” A voice interrupted his daydreams.

He turned toward where the voice came from, only to discover that it was his boss, the man eyeing him with a disapproving look. “You might want to stop daydreaming and get back to work. Those books aren’t moving themselves,” he reprimanded lightly.

“Yeah, sorry, Sir,” Harry apologized, returning his focus on the books lying before him on the cart.

He spent the next few hours organizing the books on display and cleaning up after customers who’d drunk some tea in the store’s cafe area. Aside from himself and MrCarlson, there was an older girl, Janine, who worked at the bookstore as well. Other than the fellow employees, Harry had yet to see the owner of the business. He’d been told that it was an elderly lady who’d taken over ownership after her late husband had passed a few years ago. Mr Carlson was the only employee to have met with her since he was the one reporting on the shop’s monthly earnings.

Harry never bothered to take note of the income the shop produced but it was easy enough to tell that it wasn’t really an especially successful business. They barely sold that many books and the customers that did purchase their books here seemed rather odd. They had all a sort of glow to them.

He figured it had to do with the way the sun shone into the shop or some sort of grease forming on his glasses. People weren’t supposed to shine, after all.

“Can I take my break, Mr Carlson?” he asked his superior.

The man only nodded briefly before returning his focus on the book open in front of him, the title written in a beautiful cursive font. He couldn’t read what it said. The words appeared foreign to him.

Instead of wasting his time decoding the strange language on the book’s cover, Harry moved toward the cafe area where Janine cleaned glasses and refilled the coffee machine with a new pile of brown-coloured beans. She noticed him taking a seat in the back, away from the rest of the customers enjoying their drinks and small meals.

Setting the glass she’d been polishing down, she went to fetch a piece of paper and a pen before making her way around her station and toward the boy sitting in the back by his lonesome.

“What will we be having, your excellency?” she inquired with an exaggerated tone of deference. 

Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at her, shaking his head to emphasize how ridiculous he found her behaviour. “Just tea and some biscuits, if you’ve still got good stuff.” 

“The tea is easy enough but the biscuits, I’m afraid, will require some goodwill on your part,” she sighed exaggeratedly, still maintaining her fake persona of servitude.

“What is it this time? Do I need to clean the toilet again?” The groan that left his lips further emphasized his disgusted look. The image of the task was already making its way through his head, leaving little to the imagination. He could even  _ smell _ what would await him if he agreed.

“Would you?” the taller girl asked hopefully, her tone rising a note. “I’d really appreciate it if you would do it again today. I’m going on a date tonight and I don’t want to risk one ounce of that stuff sticking to the underside of my nails. I’d owe you.” 

Janine folded her hands pleadingly before her, but he knew that she just wanted to get out of doing the chore, whether it was for a date or something else or even nothing at all. As the one responsible for the cafe, the duty did fall to her, but then again, he wasn’t one to hang friends and colleagues out to dry.

He could make her suffer for it first before he’d agree to anything, he figured, letting an evil grin form on his face. “If I checked the tally that you’ve accumulated, I’d say I’m the best friend you’ll ever have. You have yet to try and even the score,” he lamented, careful not to let his ‘annoyed’ facade crumble too early.

She waved him off smugly, smiling at his attempt to guilt her into changing her mind. “Harry, it’s the thought that counts, remember? If you do this for me, I’ll forever remain in your debt.”

Aware that his attempt at false bravado failed spectacularly, he felt that he should at least try to lecture her properly, despite being the younger of the two of them. “If you keep this up, all you’ll ever have is a ton of debt. Not a great position to be in, Jan.”

Ignoring his attempt to tell her what’s what, she simply continued with her point of view, talking over him as if it was the easiest thing. “Well, that may very well be true, but you seem to forget that you’re the only one I’m in debt to. I don’t exactly ask anyone else for favours, do I?” The clever correction, even though it was outright ridiculous because he knew she always wormed her way out of any chore when she could, rang true and crushed his earlier statement.

Recognizing the futility of their back and forth, he didn’t respond, determining that any further argument on that front would only lead to more nonsense coming from her end. Simply looking at her silently, he couldn’t help but smile smugly and wait. 

“You’re a real brat sometimes, Harry. You’ll never find a decent girl with that ‘no-can-do’ attitude. Forget any advice coming from me, for when you come begging for help in that department.” Raising her hand to her chest, her face portrayed the perfect example of what ‘utter disappointment’ looked like.

He smiled at that even more, forming a Cheshire cat grin, and leaned himself against the back of his chair, a hand raised to finally call it quits. “Fine then, you are right. I should choose my battles more wisely. And who knows, maybe I’ll be needing that advice of yours for when I find ‘The One’.” Despite offering his agreement to help her, he couldn’t deny himself the opportunity at a last dig. “I’ll do it if only to spare your  _ date _ the indignity of a date dealing with a smelly pair of hands.”

Janine huffed at that but giggled at the preceding exaggerated surrender. 

“Well, then we are in agreement. Tea and biscuit coming right up, Mr Potter,” she said, turning with a bounce to her step to fetch his order

After the older teenager rushed off, Harry turned his gaze back toward the front part of the cafeteria, eyeing the passing customers as they studied the books on the shelves. 

He was always fascinated by how seemingly different people secretly shared common interests. Punk rockers and bankers reading comics while gardeners and teachers read up on philosophy. People who’d never dare strike up a conversation in public, finding common ground within the quiet and protective, sombre air of a bookstore. It was similar to how bars used heavy doors to inspire a sense of doom for the fainthearted, but a warm hearth to those who closed it behind them, once inside.

His thought was interrupted by the sudden ring of the doorbell. Harry glanced toward the entrance to the shop, noticing a rather bushy head of hair. He smiled to himself as he raised an arm to alert the individual to his location, their change in expression compared to a Viking first discovering Vinland - it was that kind of joy.

Quickly but quietly, she made her way toward him and dropped herself on the seat opposite him. Placing her heavy bag on the chair next to her, the contents of which were the old books she’d read to the point of leaving pages scarred by small rips, she made sure it wouldn’t slide and let the contents tumble to the floor. 

Then, and only then, did Hermione turn her focus on him. The smile that emerged on her face almost blinded him, certainly a byproduct of her proximity to new, still unread books - her  _ children _ as she once put it.

“Hey Harry, funny finding you here.”

“Why yes, what a coincidence, isn’t it?”

Before Hermione could respond to his thoroughly practised banter, Janine returned with Harry’s order on a small plate in her hands, placing the few things carefully on the table and looking at Hermione expectantly, a pen and paper ready in her hands.

“Hi there, what will you be having? I can recommend the Latte with fruitcake. It’s just been freshly delivered,” she offered honestly, a vast difference to her earlier attitude toward Harry, who could only watch in mild amusement. He wished she’d treat him like an adult at least once in his life.

“Hi,” Hermione greeted before she thought about the offer for a few moments. The menu on the table, still standing up in the placeholder, didn’t offer any other attractive alternatives to her. Eyeing Harry’s steaming cup of tea and lightly-coloured biscuits, she came to a decision. ”It sounds great but I think I’ll be having what he’s having. Tea and biscuits would do the trick for me too, thank you.”

Janine nodded at her and wrote down the order before making her way back to the station to prepare the order, the older girl’s body moving quickly but efficiently in the periphery of her eyes. 

Hermione returned her focus to Harry who raised his cup to take a careful first sip from the hot drink. “Any good?” she inquired earnestly.

“Hm?”, he expressed in surprise, careful not to burn lips as he replaced the cup on the table. “Yeah, decent as ever. When it’s not the books that are making money, it’ll be Janine’s tea assortment that’ll save this place.”

At the praise for the older girl that had just taken her order, Hermione felt a small sting pinching her chest. Focusing on not letting him notice her mild envy at the nice words for the other girl, Hermione shrugged. 

“Last I checked I’ve purchased bulks of books from this place. It isn’t exactly wise to suggest that I purchase my books elsewhere by ridiculing this place’s business model. It’s quite unwise of you to do so in my presence, Harry,” she reminded him pointedly, her eyebrow raised to express her disappointment. 

“I’ll take that under advisement for whenever I open up a bookstore. You’ll be my first customer and I won’t be making any jokes then,” he promised her, taking another small sip from his steaming cup.

“Ah yes, sarcasm, the lowest form of wit.” The bushy-haired girl sighed dejectedly, her lack of surprise evidence of having endured his ‘witty’ banter in the past.

Feigning a pained expression, he placed a hand on his chest and twisted his face in a long falsely pained grimace. “You insult me, Hermione. It’s one of my many redeeming qualities.” He knew that he was stretching the gag but didn’t care. She was his friend and, somehow, he didn’t see her minding it.

“Harry,” she whined, a hand covering her face, ”you have many redeeming qualities, but  _ that _ is not one of them.” 

“I beg to differ,” he replied curtly.

“Beg all you want then.”

“I will.” He nodded at her, crossing his arms before him. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, mirroring his movement.

They eyed each other seriously before giggling themselves silly. At the sharp gaze coming from Mr Carlson, Harry raised a hand in apology and lifted a finger to his lips at Hermione, who could only agree. 

He was glad to have met her in this bookstore last summer, during one of her hunts for new books. At the time of their meeting, she had been looking for books on snake biology and pre-historic records of reptiles, as well as mention of snakes in the mythology of antiquity. The assortment of books available on the subjects was endless but he had been willing to spend hours with her digging through all possible books of interest to her. After the lengthy search, she’d gone home with about a dozen books on the slithering reptiles.

The memory of it brought another smile to his lips, one she’d taken to form one of her own.

“What would the world come to if not for you, Hermione?,” he began, praising her. “It would be a dozen shades of grey darker.”

“Was that poetry I heard?” she asked, her cheeks reddening at the kind words being thrown at her suddenly.

“No, it’s the truth,” he insisted clearly before dropping his serious mien for one of joy. “The harsh kind, that is.”

“Well, thank you for your honest but harsh poetry then.”

He bowed with his head graciously, placing a hand on his chest in a manner that screamed pompousness. “I aim to please.”

She giggled at that some more before she forced a hand to cover her mouth to combat the loud noise. Once the excitement over his terrible acting subsided, Hermione brought a more serious topic to the forefront of her mind, the letters of the subject’s title clearly visible in her head. 

“So,” she began seriously, her hands folded nicely on the surface of the table, half-hidden by the menu booklet in between them.

“So,” he echoed cheekily.

She narrowed her eyes at him with a grin but straightened her face shortly after. The question that would follow had occupied her for a while now and she worried that if she didn’t ask him soon, she’d miss the opportunity to prepare herself for the answer.

“When are you finally participating in that race of yours?”

Harry, surprised at the sudden change in topic, looked past her at something behind her, the wheels turning behind his green eyes. It wasn’t the first time they’d discussed his passion for motorsports but it was the first time she’d taken the initiative to open the subject first.

“Not sure about when exactly I’d be able to answer that particular question, but I’m making progress. The car isn’t quite there yet but with the money I’ll be getting soon, I should be able to complete it in a week. I just need a few more parts and then I’ll be good to go.” His choice of words was consciously vague to avoid making premature commitments or handing out the wrong information. Hermione liked to be clear on things and speculation wasn’t exactly her  _ thing _ .

“And who’ll be driving?” Another good question coming from her side of the table, reminding him of the one catch to his recent luck of finding a sponsor. The answer was something he’d dreaded to answer, based on what she’d told him about the person they’d met.

“I was thinking about Ron,” he began carefully, not meeting her gaze as he spoke. ”You know, Ronald Weasley? The redhead kid whose father came with that ancient light-blue Ford Anglia during the last event?”

They’d met the Weasley father with his son at the last race event he’d gone to with Hermione. Harry and Mr Weasley had gotten to talking and once he’d introduced himself to the man, the latter had instantly offered to pay for the remaining parts that Harry required for his project car. Not believing his good fortune, Harry had quickly agreed to the one condition: that Ron be permitted to drive the car. He had no qualms over that one, singular condition as he’d only ever been interested in building and tuning cars, never driving them. It had been like that as far back as he could remember. Perhaps even longer than that.

The sporting event he had in mind was an open class race, where drivers didn’t need to have licenses and only had to fulfil the physical traits and fitness to remain unharmed in a crash. If participants were underage, a legal guardian had to be present and pay the participation fee. Sirius had already agreed to join him and take care of the legal conditions. In terms of money, Harry had always been more independent, not taking a dime from his godfather unless it had to do with his living situation or other similar matters. When it came to racing, he wanted it to be on his terms and no one else's.

“Yes, I remember that. But why would you agree to his driving your car? Have you ever  _ seen _ him drive a car before?” she asked, confusion evident on her face and disappointment marring her tone. It was clear she didn’t quite like the idea, but he couldn’t tell why it mattered so much to her. 

“His father offered to sponsor my car if I’d let him put his son in it. I watched him drive his father’s car and he seemed like he knew what he was doing. At least he didn’t crash, that is,” Harry replied with a shrug. 

Hermione’s general demeanour grew tense at his relaxed view on the matter and it began to irk him a bit. It wasn’t exactly her business whom he chose as a driver but somehow he also appreciated her emotional investment in his success.

He saw her shaking her head lightly as she looked down at the table, her arms moving back until they dropped in her lap and away from his sight. He couldn’t see what was happening under the table but if he were to guess, she’d succumb to her one tell - a nervous tick even. Whenever there was something she disagreed with but couldn’t articulate the words to express herself, she’d play with her fingernails.

“That isn’t exactly a winning argument, Harry,” she stressed. 

“I know,” Harry admitted and nodded his agreement to her assessment. ”But I need the money and if I have to rent out my car to some kid for a race without him destroying it, that’s fair. I’d be able to finish my car and go hunt for a better driver the next time around when I have the luxury to choose.”

He’d hoped that she may see now where he was going with his decision to let the kid, Ron, drive his car.

“I do get what you mean, but what do you know about  _ those _ people? From what you know, they could make you give him a seat every time they ask. You’re not exactly in a position to disagree,” she argued further, her unusual premature judgement a new side to her he hadn’t yet seen. He didn’t like it.

Deciding it was better not to address her unusual behaviour and unfair choice of words over people she barely knew, he remained calm and relied on his relaxed shoulders and face to transmit that sense to her.

“I like to be optimistic about those things and they didn’t strike me as the callous type,” he began with a shrug. “I think Mr Weasley simply wanted to afford his son the opportunity to drive a real race car at a real event where classes are open and a license isn’t required. Who would I be if I didn’t feel a speck of camaraderie to Ron?”

Hermione's face suddenly fell at the last comment coming from Harry. Letting the tenseness in her body go and dropping her aggressive posture, she looked like she'd finally seen it from his point of view.

“I see,” she began, much more composed but still sure of herself and what was to follow. “I still think you ought to be clear about where the boundaries are when it comes to your car, but it’s your decision. If you feel that you have to rent out your car to people you hardly know, then fine.”

The tone in her voice had gone a bit flatter than before and it worried him that he’d pushed her into a corner from where she was not permitted to express an honest opinion. To remedy the situation, he decided to move the conversation along and point out to her how racing for those who had yet to enter worked.

“Renting out race cars is the bread and butter of most of the teams in the racing world. If you’re not a works team, you’re renting out one of the cars if not all. That’s perfectly normal. I’m flattered even to have attracted the eye of a sponsor to rent my car. Makes me feel like I’m getting one step closer to where my parents got,” he said as a smile he couldn’t stop forming on his face; the mention of his parents often did that.

Hermione eyed him quietly. She’d hardly ever heard him speak of his parents in the last year she’d known him.

It was then that Janine returned with Hermione’s order, placing it on the table in front of her.

“Thank you, it looks great,” she praised, before noticing something off about her order. Confused, she raised a finger to point at Harry’s plate.

“Why did he get different biscuits?”

Janine looked at Harry and then at Hermione.

“He gets the bland ones that we don’t serve to customers. Don’t worry about it, he likes them that way. Please enjoy it,” Janine explained before leaving again.

Hermione returned her focus on Harry, a question on her lips. She was however slower than he was to speak.

“It’s fine. As she said, I like them slightly bland. I hate wasting food, so I volunteer to eat them whenever I’m on break,” he explained with a shrug.

“You could donate them, you don’t have to eat all of them,” she countered instead, opening an entirely new can of worms.

He couldn’t help but grin at Hermione’s relentless will to debate everything. He didn’t have that many people in his life who’d wish to discuss anything and everything with him. He also learned a lot from her keen interest to research anything new, leaving him with more knowledge than he’d begun a conversation with.

“I don’t know…,” he began, scratching his head to buy time, “I feel like it would be unfair to give old food to people.”

“Do you prefer to give them nothing?” She pushed again, not giving him the chance to leave things hanging vaguely between them.

“The store donates what is still good and my godfather donates to the soup kitchens and the Salvation Army regularly.”

“Oh, I see.” Her pale cheeks reddened in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to suggest that-”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted her, his hand raised to calm her sudden, rambling apology. ”I know you meant well. And you didn’t know that about me. No harm no foul, Hermione.”

She gave him a small smile, lowering her gaze toward the cup of tea trapped between her palms. 

“So, can I come to the event? As a team member, I mean,” she asked suddenly, the speed with which she switched back to the original topic of their conversation giving him figurative whiplash.

“What do you mean as a team supporter … like a grid girl? I mean, I’m not sure they’d allow that but I could ask if you’re insisting,” he stated flatly, perfectly aware that this was not what she’d meant. But he couldn’t have possibly passed up on teasing her like that.

Hermione, her mouth forming a big “O”, lurching forward to bend over the table to smack him on the arm.

“Harry Potter, you... _ Me _ a grid girl? As a supporter of the team, of course. What do you even mean by your outrageous idea? What makes you think I’d make a good grid girl? I mean...to be clear...they’re the girls in skimpy outfits standing next to the cars on the starting line, correct?” she asked while she covered her face with both her hands from embarrassment.

“Yup, that would be what grid girls do. But I was only kidding.” Harry laughed deeply, touching her arm to relieve her sense of embarrassment. “And yes, of course, you can come and support my team. I’d love to have you there. And yes, given the opportunity you’d make a brilliant grid girl. You’d distract the entire competition and get me a win.” 

He grinned at the last bit before laughing out loud, enjoying the fruits of his practical joke to the fullest.

Shaking her head at him, she joined him, her snickers barely audible. 

At the shushing sound coming from Mr Carlson again, the two teens lowered their heads in apology again but grinned at each other.

“You are incorrigible, you know that. One of these days you’ll find yourself in a situation where you won’t find a way to talk yourself out again,” she stated.

He smiled at that, raising his gaze to the clock above her head behind her. Checking his watch in shock, he quickly downed his tea and finished his biscuit and went to return the plate and cup to Janine’s station who thanked him for saving her a trip to his table.

Returning to Hermione’s side, he checked himself over for crumbs and stains before addressing her again.

“I got to get back to work but I’ll call you about the details of the race, so that you know your way around when you show up,” he explained in a rush but grew quiet as he remembered something he’d wanted to tell her. “Erm, also, I have a few books for you that came today. I’ll prepare them for you when you come by the register to pay, after you’ve done your rounds in the shop.” 

“Thanks, yeah. Will do. See you in a bit,” she confirmed with a happy smile, nodding at him as he left to continue his work.

###

**Later that day...**

Black Manor, London, England

The garage smelled of oil and grease with a touch of petrol to help underline what had been the home to Harry’s hobby and passion since his earliest days. The walls were lined with tools, posters of famous race cars and drivers and the occasional pin-up of a race queen that Sirius would cheekily hang up when he wasn’t watching.

While the floor around the car looked like a whirlwind had come past it not too long ago, Harry preferred it that way. He knew where every single tool and part was, and the people who worked and lived at Black Manor respected it as his private sanctuary. A holy place, the one location where he was never to be disturbed unless it was absolutely necessary.

The car, an old rust bucket of a Mercedes 190 from the 80s that he’d purchased with his saved money, stood proudly in the centre of the garage, the wheels removed and parts strewn around the workbenches surrounding it. If one didn’t know how cars worked, the most logical conclusion would be that it would never run, but Harry knew exactly where every single part belonged. He knew if something worked and fit even before he’d try to mount it. It had always been a mystery how he knew what he needed and when he needed it. 

As he continued wrenching under the car, a knock could be heard coming from the door leading to the washroom of the Manor. The path through the washroom would lead further into the wine cellar of Sirius’ estate.

“Mate, you coming in to eat or what?” The voice of his godfather called to seemingly empty air, the question left to hang in the silence of the room.

Grunting in frustration at being interrupted, Harry dropped the wrench on the floor beside him.

“Didn’t we just eat?”

“If ‘just’ means a few hours ago, then yes. You’d be correct, but since it’s been too long for my tastes, I’d much prefer if you’d come in and have dinner with us, even if just for a sandwich,” Sirius argued with his godson, his voice underlined by hope.

“I’m good,” Harry provided curtly as an answer, food being the furthest from his mind. “I still want to finish putting the oil pan back in and if I do this wrong, this thing will leak like a sieve.”

Confident that he’d argued his way out of dinner, Harry grabbed the large wrench again and went back to putting in the bolts holding the pan in position. He had to be careful as the engine block was made of aluminium and if he messed up, he’d ruin the treading. Fixing that would be more than just a minor headache - it’d be a disaster.

Sirius, not appreciating being leisurely waved off, moved around the car and bent down to spy Harry from the side, still lying under it. He noticed the oil smudges on the boy’s face, a deja vu of James’ face flashing before him.

“I’m sure the oil pan can wait until after dinner. I don’t want Celine’s food to go to waste if I can help it,” the older man explained again. ”For that to happen, I need you to eat your share that she has so carefully and lovingly prepared.” 

Harry didn’t respond to his godfather’s request and continued to stubbornly put screws back in the part of the car. He loved the two adults who’d raised him but this was his own time. He worked hard to earn himself a measure of peace of quiet, sandwich be damned.

Sirius, recognizing that he wouldn’t be able to convince his charge on this route, decided to distract the youth with another line of conversation. Instead of bending to meet the young man’s eye, Sirius turned and laid down on his back, probably staining his clothes with the oil that leaked from the car on previous occasions. He didn’t let it bother him as his face remained unchanged.

“You know,” he began somberly, his eyes turned toward a sky that wasn’t there, “you just reminded me of your dear late father. When we were still in school, he too liked to spend his time working on machines. When I had first purchased my motorcycle, it was he who was truly excited. He’d make all sorts of modifications and God bless him, his work was genius. There isn’t a man alive who’d be able to do the things he did.”

He paused as he felt the overwhelming sensation of his past coming back to him. His eyes felt wet but maybe he was imagining it.

“Soon people took notice and asked him to join them on their race weekends. He’d help provide last-minute optimizations on their cars that’d improve their timings. After some time they’d offer him bigger roles such as helping them develop parts or figuring out the overall designs for specific race tracks.”

Harry stopped working on the car and listened intently to his godfather’s trip down memory lane. It was moments like these that the young man craved more than anything. Scraps he’d yet to learn of his parents that he’d missed as a child. His eyes urged Sirius to continue.

“And one day he met your mother. A young, talented driver who’d fought her way up the ranks and became a primary driver at age of 16. A true prodigy of the sport. Rivals would praise and ridicule her evenly but she beat them all regardless. Your father didn’t make the best first impression, however. He’d caught her on a particularly bad day where her performance had slumped and he’d tried to ask her out and she flat out refused him. Roasted him even for daring to ask her out.”

Sirius had to change the way they’d met as he couldn’t possibly explain their actual first meeting. However, he remained committed to the overarching truth of their relationship. The two hadn’t gotten along in the beginning. Not at Hogwarts nor in their time making their way through the sport. Not until much later, at least.

“Let’s just say he didn’t take it well. After that, he’d take every opportunity to improve his team's car, hoping to help his team’s driver to outperform her. He’d hoped to ‘put her in her place’, he’d said at the time. It didn’t work, of course. Lily continued to win and win and soon, she’d become so successful, bigger teams in bigger circles of motorsports offered her spots in their race cars.”

“And then?” Harry uttered excitedly, his attention fixed solely on his godfather's story of his parents’ younger life.

“And then, nothing.”

“Nothing?” Harry frowned in disbelief, shaking his head slightly.

Sirius nodded without looking over to his godson who still listened to the story with tense attention to each detail. His godfather spilling valuable beans from his past were as rare as flying cars - It didn’t happen.

“For a while, they didn’t see each other again. She moved up into bigger sports events and your father remained in the smaller cups. I think for a while he’d even forgotten about her. Enabled him to focus on his own goals. And I believe that it was truly for the best because he’d soon attracted the attention of bigger sponsors. They had observed his genius with machinery and the obvious limitations of smaller teams being unable to enable his vision. These new sponsors offered to finance him as a professional. He didn’t need a team to finance his skills at that point, he could go to any team and bring sponsors with him.”

So, what then?” Harry inquired again.

“Then, he worked his way from team to team, building a reputation for himself as somebody who could decide a team’s winning chances simply by offering advice. Soon his reputation reached a team whose driver he’d come across before.”

“My mother,” Harry offered.

Sirius smiled at that, happy to oblige his godson with a warm memory.

“Yes, but it wasn’t all flowers and dandies when they met again. Your dear Mum seemed to have remembered him well enough to oppose his hiring. She’d cited that he’d be a bother to her focus and that she’d not be able to deal with his pursuits of her. Considering they’d not met in years since her rejection of him, the team felt that she’d overreacted and proposed a trial period in which she could see past his previous unprofessional behaviour and instead focus on the merits of his technical expertise.”

“So they hated one another?”

Sirius shook his head quickly at Harry's falsely drawn conclusion of what he’d just said. He waved an invisible hand at Harry and moved to reiterate what’d said.

“No, not quite. As far as Lily explained it to me, it was a touch more complicated than a simple dislike for another person.”

“Ok, well, then how did they resolve their discomfort?” his godson pushed.

“Lily,” Sirius sighed with a smile at the memory - it sounded like a weak laugh, “had always prided herself as being a driver who could make any car go fast and win, no matter what quality of support her teammates brought with them. It made her the focus of the team, with all their hopes resting on her skill as a driver. With James joining the team, she feared that maybe the team owners had foreseen a decline in her performance, leaning toward making bigger changes in the team as a whole, with her replacement indicated by the sudden hiring of James. So, you see, it wasn’t that she disliked him as a person or because he fumbled their first meeting, it was more her head playing tricks on her, making her feel suspicious of him.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the nature of his parent’s past animosity. Just like any other child, he believed that parents loved each other at first sight, having a child a testament to that love and infatuation. The fact that his parents had a rocky past was equally surprising as it was comical.

“I see you recognize the hilarious nature of it all,” his godfather commented as the man eyed him with his head tilted to subtly watch the boy. “Both of them fighting like cats and dogs only to have found common ground at some point to get married and have you.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered more to himself than to his godfather, “quite.”

He turned his gaze toward the car again, still lying under it. 

Sirius assumed that he saw far beyond what lay in front of him. To prevent the scene from turning melancholic, the older man cleared his throat to draw attention back to him.

“So!” Sirius announced loudly.

“Yeah?” Harry turned his head, eyeing his godfather again.

“This car,” Sirius knocked his knuckle at the car, the sound echoing through the chassis. “Will it be ready anytime soon? Need anything to speed up the process?”

Harry shook his head at the innocent-sounding inquiry.

“Soon, yes, need your help, no,” he answered seriously.

“How long have you already been working on this thing, hm, ages? When are you ever going to finish it?” 

“It’ll be ready when it’s ready, not any sooner or later. But I’m hoping sooner,” Harry said, fiddling with the wrench in his hands.

Sirius smiled at first but laughed at the memory of Harry asking him for help to pull an empty chassis of a car into the garage last year. It had been the oddest thing. Sirius had begun giving Harry pocket money for him to spend in his free time when he wasn’t at home being homeschooled. Who’d have thought that the boy would save every penny and purchase the first lemon he’d come across.

“What?” Harry asked defensively at his godfather’s strange wry smile.

Looking back, Sirius couldn’t believe how fast the boy had grown since his arrival at his doorstep almost an age ago. Before he went down a new rabbit hole of far gone memories, he remembered that there was still food and a woman sitting by herself at the dinner table.

“It’s nothing. Just remembered something funny.”

Nodding at his godfather’s evasive answer, Harry realized that he should perhaps meet him halfway and come eat with them.

“I’ll be out in a bit,” he finally agreed. “Once I finish up and tighten the last bolt, I’ll be at the dinner table.”

Clapping his hands together, Sirius bounced up and straightened himself onto his legs, the oil that had been on the floor before visibly soaking the back of his robe. However, he had no way of knowing that.

“We can still wait a bit for you to wash. I don’t want you smelling like an oil rag at the table. There is no need to ruin Celene’s hard work with a tang of oil in the air,” Sirius instructed to which Harry responded with an affirmative ‘humm’.

“Will do, Sir.”

Sirius clucked his tongue in response and moved for the door before stopping again to speak.

“Better see you at the table, washed and brushed before the day is out.”

“Yup.” Harry popped the ‘p’.

At the sound of the door closing, Harry turned his attention back to his car, continuing to tighten the last few bolts before pushing himself from under the car.

Getting up, he moved to organize the tools again and wipe his forehead and arms with a rag in hopes of reducing the risk of staining the insides of the house with oil smudges. 

Celine was a forgiving woman but Harry’s oily fingerprints over the years had worn out the poor woman’s patience and, therefore, his chances of surviving another single smudge manifesting anywhere in the house would reduce to mildly possible.

“Sirius,” a loud female voice shrieked through the manor, the agitation very clear in the pronunciation of the man’s name, “it’s bad enough that Harry walks around like a monkey soaked in oil, but you too? God help me, It’s like having two kids.”

Looking himself over again, he grimaced at the state of his clothes but found that his limbs and face seemed clean enough to risk tiptoeing toward the bathroom. As he opened the door, through which he could continue to hear Sirius getting yelled at, he sent a silent prayer to whatever almighty being would listen, hoping that he’d live to see the next morning.

**End of Chapter**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and if you’ve enjoyed it or would like to make note of anything that stood out to you, please do review. It’s the only way I can learn and improve.
> 
> For those who were hoping to see Fleur, she will be making an appearance soon, I promise. On that note, if you’re an avid fan of the pairing as well and would like to share your passion with fellow authors or readers, please find your way to our awesome Flowerpot discord server at discord . gg / k8ZxUjE (Remove Spaces).


	3. Of Curtains, Water, and Blazes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really appreciate the comments, the new kudos and subs, many thanks. Also, I’ve decided to set-up a discord server for those of you who’d like to talk to me about the fic. I’m easily reachable there. More on that at the end.
> 
> Betas: My thanks go again to my trusted betas, Darkened Void, Crippled Witcher, and some caring helpers from the Flowerpot server, who’ve worked tirelessly to check my work. Bravo!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter nor the mentioned brand names. They belong to their respective creators.
> 
> Please enjoy.

###

**Chapter 2:** Of Curtains, Water and Blazes

**August 24th, 1994**

Black Manor, London, England

Sirius sat at the desk in his study with piles and piles of books and sheets of papers strewn across the surface. The backlog of documents needing his signature was always a dreaded venture but it needed to be done, lest his business and the upkeep of his estate go out the window.

His study, a spacious room with a high ceiling to accommodate the shelves of books lining the walls, indicated that a highly educated intellectual frequented the room, espousing a sense of ambition and entrepreneurial finesse. The people who had purchased and collected these books were indeed such individuals, however, Sirius had never considered himself as one of them. Most of the books in the room belonged to his late father and his father before him. They were relics of a once-influential family that had wielded power like others handled their swords, with consideration and precision.

He was the last direct male descendant of the once feared Noble and Most Ancient House of Black ever since his father Orion, his uncle Cygnus and his younger brother Regulus had passed away. The only other remaining blood-related family were not on speaking terms with him. His cousins Bellatrix and Narcissa had married into families who had abandoned the Blacks after his father’s passing, leaving him to pick up the pieces of what was left. Since then, Sirius had been less than inclined to exchange pleasantries with his relatives, opting only to remain in contact with his only other cousin who’d left the family out of spite. Andromeda, who had split with them, had done so after his mother Walburga and aunt Druella had opposed the marriage between his cousin and the muggle-born wizard Edward Tonks.

After Sirius had become head of the household, he had offered Andromeda a way back into the family, despite his mother’s strong opposition. The former had been grateful for the offer but had still chosen to remain an ‘outcast’ and in the safety of the muggle world with her husband, Ted Tonks. Her daughter, Nymphadora, had recently been extended the same opportunity to join the Black family, but also she declined his invitation. He could sympathize with the young Auror’s decision. Nobody would want to join the DMLE while also declaring a political view that may be construed as the losing side.

Scoffing at the idea of ‘losing side’ he couldn’t help but let the words remind him of his commitment to the cause. Before his father had passed under suspicious circumstances, he’d formed an agreement with the esteemed and world-renowned wizard of legend and former headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Old Orion had seemingly agreed to a concerted effort to push back against an emerging group of conservative radicals within the families of old - the other ancient and noble houses that populated the highest positions of power within the country. Sirius was certain that it was that agreement that saw his family get decimated so shortly after. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have considered it an act of retribution for some form of betrayal that his father had committed against an unknown party.

Despite having gotten access to his father’s documents and ledgers the man had always kept on his person, Sirius had never learned who the responsible party was that perpetrated the murders. It was unusual for the old man to have forgone the documentation of any secret meetings and it left him with little to go on. Since his ascension to head, Sirius had not made any strides toward finding out what had happened to his relatives. The investigations had discovered foul play in all three of them, but no further traces leading to the perpetrators had been discovered. Madam Bones had been the one to inform him, her downcast eyes proving her equally unsatisfied feelings over the premature conclusion to the case.

Murders were always serious business in the magical world and it was rare that perpetrators would escape unscathed. Magical tools for investigations had only rarely been unable to provide evidence, pointing toward somebody pulling the strings from within the walls of the institution that tried to shed light on the matter.

Whether that was true or just his feelings trying to lay fault at someone, he couldn’t say. The only thing he was certain of was that he had to watch out for his actions. In the past, before he’d become a father to an orphaned boy, he would have dared to risk far more and weathered any consequence with his chest puffed out. Now, his behaviour outside of his home as well as inside of it was being watched. 

When the deaths of his male relatives took place in the winter of 1984, his rise to the head of house ruffled feathers. People had hoped to coax him into spending his family’s money on odd investment opportunities. Sirius, as mentioned before, never considered himself a savvy businessman, but he knew a bad investment when he saw one, a gift of experience his father had instilled in him. In his grief and feelings of betrayal, he had refused all proposals of doing business, locking himself away from those that may have had a hand in the murders. 

Another consequence of the murders was the sudden fear of associating with the Black family in social circles. His family had been considered the vanguard of pureblood propriety, an ideal to strive toward and mingle with at any opportunity. Sirius had even secured the hand of Celine in marriage, a fellow pureblood. However, after the murders, everything had come undone and all previous agreements had been nulled and voided, leaving him to another pile of shattered hopes and dreams.

The final nail in the coffin had been the Potters’ accident in ‘86, leaving him with barely any family and friends left. If it hadn’t been for Harry, who had arrived at his doorstep the next day, Sirius wouldn’t be sure where he would have ended up today.

With the arrival of his godson, Sirius’ responsibilities shifted away from the past and onto the future. When the last will and testament of the Potters was read to him, the only instruction they’d left was that he raise their son to the best of his ability and when the time was right, to introduce him to his heritage. Until then, it would be up to Sirius to manage the assets of House Potter and do with it as he saw fit.

It had been quite vague but he figured they worded it that way to confuse onlookers who would be keen to know their family’s plans. Sirius could only infer from previous conversations he’d had with Lily and James on what ‘raising’ their son meant - no mentions of magic until he showed magic or learned of magic.

Since then, Sirius had commissioned the reconstruction of an older manor and focussed on making everything muggle-like. The only magic that surrounded the house was protective charms and an anti-apparition ward that would repel uninvited guests. Spells that would hide the house weren’t used as it would defeat the purpose of being perfect ‘muggles’. The house was equipped with the most modern technologies money could buy, leaving Sirius to read through all user’s manuals for the numerous home appliances in order not to accidentally set the home on fire. 

Realizing he couldn’t possibly maintain and clean the large home all by himself while taking care of a scared boy, Sirius had considered how to replace the absence of the house-elf workforce. Kreacher had been left to maintain the upkeep of Grimmauld Place and serve at the pleasure of his widowed mother and aunt, on the condition that both would not interfere with his life unless the need for his attention was dire.

To ensure that they’d never possibly send for him and accidentally let an owl fly through the home with a letter in its beak, he had granted them a generous allowance for personal use. So far, the agreement had worked.

After the dismissal of his house-elf from his service, Sirius had to consider how to manage his home life. The only chance to provide the boy with a sustainable situation was to balance the scale between them. The staff at home had to be at least partially muggle to manage the home that lacked all magical means, the practice of magic forbidden on the premises. But he also required staff that knew about magic or knew how to use magic in case of emergency.

Sirius had to put on an elaborate, long-term act using the home as a stage and the staff as the curtain behind which he’d have to hide to continue his obligations to his magical affairs. It had been nerve-wracking in the beginning and, if it hadn’t been for Celine, he would surely have crashed and burned in the first weeks of raising young Harry.

Truly, Celine had risen to the occasion like the natural talent she’d always been. Always aiming to be the best she could be at something she’d never done before, being a parent.

Looking back on it, Sirius could scarcely believe how he had managed to convince her family to let her ‘work’ at his estate as head of the staff. He knew that she would have joined him at his estate regardless but he hadn’t wanted to burden her with a rift in her family. There were enough cut-off or missing relations to go around in their small family.

Celine had happily accepted the position, allowing her to fulfil the role that Lily had bestowed on her as godmother to Harry. But she had to maintain her role as ‘housemaid’ to convince the rest of magical society that she was only there to work, not play house with Sirius. A condition her parents had insisted upon.

The rest, as it were, was history. Together, Sirius and Celine, they’d pulled the strings of the people working on the estate behind an invisible curtain while Harry grew up, perfectly unaware of the forces at work in his own home.

It was cruel and deceitful, but it was all to protect the boy from the magical world his parents didn’t want him to see and possibly suffer, whatever the cost.

Yes, _ cost _ , he mused. Sirius massaged his head to alleviate the heavy set feelings that emerged at the mention of the word. The consequences of his past had denied him many things others took for granted.

The fact that Narcissa’s son, Draco Malfoy, was set to inherit his title, family name and assets worried him. The laws of succession were patriarchal and he was partially grateful for that. If they’d included female members of the family, they would have either spelt catastrophe, if things fell to his mother, or, they would have made young Nymphadora a target if Sirius made the wrong enemy. Blessedly, the laws of succession protected young Tonks from harm. Were the circumstances any different, he’d have preferred her over Draco any day, as he found much of himself reflected in her.

While Sirius didn’t have the political savvy of his late father nor the financial brilliance that was his uncle’s, he did manage his family’s investments well enough to maintain his wealth and lifestyle to raise an orphaned boy. Conceiving a son of his own was out of the question for him. The deaths of his male relatives were still unresolved, evidence indicating that foul play had been at hand but otherwise inconclusive as to who committed the murders and why.

Endangering another child, even if his own, to such sinister circumstances disagreed with him well enough that even Celine, who’d have been fine with a child born out of wed-lock, would not dissuade him from his decision. It was for this reason as well he’d yet to enter Harry into his will, terrified by the idea that somebody might come to hurt the young innocent boy.

Drowning in his musings, Sirius almost missed the noise at the window. A pointed ‘tock’ alerted him to a rather dishevelled looking owl carrying a letter in its beak. Usually, owls would drop their cargo in a designated box but when he was in his office, they’d make their way to his window.

Getting up from his heavy leather chair, Sirius walked over to the large window behind him and opened it with a hard yank, allowing the owl to drop the letter in his extended hand. Bringing the letter up to his chest, he studied the writing on its surface. 

“Weasley?” he scoffed, his voice underlining a sense of confusion. “What in Merlin’s name do they want?”

The owl called at him, evidently waiting for him to either offer a letter in return or a reward for its services. It was essentially what accounted for the muggle equivalent of mail postage.

Walking back to fetch a knut from a small bowl on his desk, he offered it to the bird which picked at the food rather incompetently before flying off with difficulty, almost hitting a street lantern on its climb up.

Shaking his head at the disappearing animal, Sirius closed the window firmly and returned to sit at his mahogany desk, adding another piece of literature to the already impressive pile. He’d read the letter later.

Looking at the grandfather clock in his room, he noticed that it was soon time for a session of the Wizengamot. An escaped criminal had been caught and a re-evaluation of his still pending sentence was required for which he had to be present to pass the amended sentence. 

He hated participating in these sessions, having long loathed how they’d handled his family’s murders and how they had effectively been the cause for the cases to be  _ shelved _ . The existence of a cabal working against him within the ranks of the Wizengamot seemed almost guaranteed, considering that many of the currently active members suffered severe economic as well as political defeats during his father’s prime.

If Sirius were a betting man, and he had been in the past, then a plot to murder and eviscerate his family was a fairly safe assumption. The problem was, he had no idea who’d been resourceful or connected enough to come up with such trickery. The Blacks had been one of the families who had led a large political bloc in the Wizengamot until his father’s passing. In the aftermath of the crimes, the loyal factions had collapsed overnight, the allied seats breaking away from the Black family and running in other directions, but drawing no direct attention to another player.

The death of Lily and James on the other hand, while suspiciously close in timing to his own family’s deaths, provided no leads that would raise the idea that foul play had been involved. Their accident was ruled just that, a typical accident like any other muggle in a car would experience.

The report on their deaths had been phrased exactly like that, ‘a muggle accident like any other’. Highlighting the word ‘muggle’ as the reason why they’d died. Not  _ how _ they’d passed, but  _ why _ . The last stab at the family that had been very supportive of wizards and witches participating in the muggle world. 

_ A perfectly noble cause if I ever saw one _ .

At the time of their passing, Sirius had still been grieving his relatives, when a muggle official had come to drop off the miniature form of James. The child’s striking emerald eyes had been dulled by tears, having lost their former brilliant shine.

James’ parents had passed relatively young for magicals of their pedigree. The Potter family line had been famous for long lifespans and fertility. In times past, the Potter’s youngest unmarried female members were sought after so much that ‘auctions’ had been held to win the hand of the young maidens. 

Of course, the Potters were not uncaring of their offsprings’ romantic pursuits and allowed them to choose their mates. It was only when a mate remained elusive or a preferred partner couldn’t be selected that an auction of the most agreeable potential spouses had to be held. The Potters were a loving and progressive family but they were also pragmatists.

Over generations, the Potter relations grew too dilute and only the furthest relations almost going back generations remained, leaving the boy without a living magical relative. In the muggle world, Harry was registered as the sole heir of James and Lily Potter with no further relations being recorded. Petunia and her husband Vernon had seen to that, claiming that ‘freakish’ relations were unwanted.

Within the purview of the Ministry of Magic, he was heir to the Potter name and everything that came with it. However, as he was too young and yet to prove any magical affinity, the Ministry deemed to place the Potter assets and titles in a trust that would be governed by a select group chosen from the body of the Wizengamot. Upon citing the written will of the Potters, that Sirius be given control of the Potter assets, the Ministry’s legal department argued that the Black assets were already too enormous to justify the access to another powerful and wealthy family’s assets.

The wording of the laws that the Ministry applied was so intricate that Harry had an ill chance of getting what was rightfully his. Lines upon lines of legal jargon would determine more reasons to keep Harry from his inheritance than offer guidance as to how to meet the conditions to release it.

Sirius suspected that it was a ploy to hold on to the vast riches of the Potter family, amongst which the family grimoire with secret magicks as well as magical artefacts would be included. It wasn’t every day that an ancient magical family ceased to exist and other families frothed at the mouth at an opportunity to pounce on its treasures.

To protect Harry from the hyenas at the Ministry and some extended relations, Sirius laid claim to the boy, citing a magical oath he’d given to his parents to be his guardian should the need arise. With the legal backing of the registered written oath stored in the Potter family vault, as well as the inspection of Sirius' magical signature threaded to Harry’s soul, the little boy had been released to his godfather’s custody. Harry had been rendered unconscious throughout the entire ordeal. It was underhanded but again, necessary.

Sirius had, since that day, been doing his best to keep the magical world at bay, keeping his promise to Lily that Harry be only informed of the magical world if he practised accidental magic just once. To this day, Harry had yet to perform a single spark of magic to meet the conditions of that promise.

If he was honest, letting Harry know that magic existed would have made everyone’s lives far easier. The boy would miss out on the wonders of magic and would have to satisfy himself with the knowledge that he’d never perform magic, but he would know it existed. That alone might be something he’d find joy in. It was what Sirius felt would be a logical conclusion. Magic wasn’t to be feared but admired for its own sake. 

Be that as it may, Sirius never had to think about  _ not _ being able to perform magic and thus would never be able to fathom the feelings of those who were born squibs. If Filch was any indication, the horror of Harry becoming like that unlovable, old bastard put the fear of Morgana in him.

He sighed another tired breath to his musings.

Lily, as a muggle-born, knew exactly what would happen to those who learned of magic but couldn’t use it. Petunia had made herself quite clear that magic or anything related to magic, even her little nephew, would never be allowed to trespass upon her doorstep. It had been an attitude Lily may have taken to inspire her approach to Harry's upbringing. She sought to spare the child the heartache and disappointment that would poison his mind against his parents and their magical acquaintances.

But if Sirius’ friendship with the muggle-born witch bore any educational fruit, it was the quote he’d learned of, with which he agreed the most. It was a phrase he’d heard her mention when talking about her muggle father and it had stuck with him due to its catchiness.

“Anything that can go wrong will go wrong,” he quietly told himself before he chuckled at the memory, the thought at the past banter spreading warmth through his body.

He was sure that Harry would find out eventually and that it was up to him to soften the blow of the news. Such a secret was, after all, mind-blowing to most people, and his godson, for all his parents’ well-meant intentions, was equally as susceptible.

Looking up at the clock at the other end of his study again, he quietly gasped, having forgotten about the Wizengamot session he was supposed to attend in but a few minutes. Rushing out of his chair, he began collecting his needed belongings and quickly moved toward the door to exit his study. Walking down the stairs from the first floor of the manor, Sirius informed whoever was still in the building that he’d be going out for a bit and that he’d be back before dinner. 

Walking out the front gate, he moved toward the alley across the street where he disillusioned himself and, once he was sure that he vanished without notice, apparated away.

###

**Same day but somewhere else entirely...**

South-East of Toulouse, East-Pyrenees, France

The area between Spain and France had been a popular destination for motorsports of various kinds. The beautiful landscape with its rich colours and vast fauna and the seasonal changes and conditions drawing muggles to its region regularly. For Jean, standing atop a small hill that oversaw one of the many valleys splitting the mountains, it was always a genuine pleasure to come here. On this occasion, however, there was little comfort evident as his demeanour was defined by his body’s stiffness, evoking a sense of trepidation. In his hand he held a boxy device with an antenna, speaking into it in intervals and with a touch of worry marring his words.

“ _ How long before they’re expected at the last control point? _ ” Jean asked, his gaze focussed on the map that laid on top of the camping table, in his other hand he held the walkie-talkie. 

“ _ Any minute now. As long as they don’t have a puncture, _ ” a buzzing French voice responded instantly, the unnatural noise disturbing the peaceful quiet that surrounded the man.

The agitation drew lines on his sweaty forehead above his aviator sunglasses, his skin glistening in the burning sun. He could sit in the shade under the large standing umbrella, but instead, he continued to pace a circle into the dirt around it, digging a trench with each lap.

He couldn’t fathom why Fleur hadn’t made it to the end yet, despite having clearly prepared herself for the stage. The stage wasn’t a difficult one and would have posed little challenge to her driving skills. Even a puncture in the tire wouldn’t have demanded much of a time penalty. The dust roads here weren’t plagued by rocks or too uneven a terrain, she wouldn’t have stopped to change the tire but persevered until the end. 

No, this wasn’t a possible tire puncture or anything similarly mundane that has caused the delay in her arrival at the second main control point. This had to be more serious than he’d first thought. Gripping the walkie-talkie more firmly in his hand, he engaged the sending button that responded to his push with a two-tone beep.

“ _ Did the car have any damage before they started? _ ” he asked again, the demand to know more growing with each breath.

The voice didn’t answer right away, deepening the sense of dread within him as he waited impatiently with the communication device close to his face. 

With a rasp to the voice, the walkie-talkie returned to life and transmitted the urgently awaited response.

“ _ Uh...we’ve...we’ve had to temporarily fix a water leak. The car slightly overheated on the first run but the guys believe the engine didn’t blow its head gasket. We didn’t see any oil in the water reservoir. So, the concerns there are minimal. We’re more worried about her ferocious driving. Were it anyone else, I’d wager the car might make it to MC2. But with her…, _ ” the voice paused worriedly, “ _ well, she might overdo it. _ ”

At the confession of the man on the other end of the conversation, Jean couldn’t help but groan into the walkie-talkie. Luckily, he had not yet engaged the response button and made his discomfort public. As the owner of the team, he had to remain levelheaded and not let others know that he was put on the back foot. Leadership would become impossible and would allow disobedience to fester among the ranks of his employees. 

His shoulders sagged in acceptance, the weight of his worries pulling him to lay back on the heavy-duty fabric of his chair. The walkie-talkie resting on his thigh, he breathed a sigh of defeat and raised it to his lips to express his words of surrender.

“D’accord _ , Let me know once you know anything. I’ll continue to observe the weather conditions out here and report changes. JD out. _ ”

Dropping the communication device on the table into the sunlight, he scoffed angrily into the air, shaking his head at his helpless state. His darkened spectacles continued to hide his raw expression of displeasure, masking the majority of his face and protecting his eyes from the light that was reflected by the fluctuating hot air crossing the flatter terrain in the distance. The shade provided by the larger umbrella offered him refuge from the roasting Mediterranean sun above him.

The walkie-talkie kept on sounding other team members’ conversations, the dialogues being mostly about other driver pairs’ expected performances or inquiries into the logistics of spare parts and tools. Any word on his daughter’s location or performance however remained unmentioned, leaving the man to stew in his worries.

The reason why Jean was so far outside the encampment of the rest of the teams that participated in this event, was as boring as it was important. Usually, another man would be sitting in his place, the eyes tracking the movement of the clouds and protocolling changes in the behaviour of the wind. You’d think that one look at the sky would suffice to decide whether one should choose tires for rain or sun. But he wasn’t an expert on climates and could as such only provide what children learned in school. The man who was responsible for the job had called in sick that day and since they’d never considered any back-up person for the job, Jean had chosen to fill the position temporarily. His respect for his sick employee grew over the day; only somebody who liked to study the weather could fathom sitting out here and stare at the sky all day.

He wished he’d never considered the position of climatologist in his team, but other teams began using experts on climate to determine the flow of wind. Wind affected the cars’ ability to cut through the air and also affected their flight path, should they take off at a sudden drop in the road. There had already been several accidents due to sudden gusts pushing against the airborne vehicles. Some landings have been quite severe, smashing the chassis harshly and threatening the lives of the inhabitants in cars.

Thinking even further back, Jean breathed a sigh of relief at the improved safety regulations that the FIA (Federation Internationale de l’Automobile) had insisted be put into effect immediately after the infamous Corse crash of 1986. It was the game-changer for all future races in the world of Rallye and the end to the spectacle and rogue class of Group B. Fleur now sat in a car that benefited greatly from the strides made in automotive racing safety. Reinforced roll bars, fully fireproof racing overalls and emergency kill-switches that would choke the engine should it catch on fire, were introduced in the years since the terrible accident of his former rivals, the Potters.

The loss of their raw talent and their commitment to pureblood and muggle-born relations had been well received across the globe. Magicals and muggles, while wholly unaware of each other, felt the raw vacuum that the pair left behind in the world of motorsports. But nobody would have come close to the intensity of feelings that had erupted from the boy his daughter had held in her arms that fateful day.

Fleur had howled in pain as she squeezed herself onto the boy, not letting go. Before he had been able to rip her from young Harry’s body, the latter had already collapsed and dragged the limp form of his daughter with him. When he’d asked the medical staff at the event about the cause for their mutual collapse, they’d cited emotional trauma for the boy and severe exhaustion for his daughter. Later, at a magical hospital, they had told him that her magical core had suffered some kind of bursting episode. The how and why remained unknown.

Rubbing at his arm, he couldn’t help but let a ripple of anxiety roll across his body, ending with a tingle at the furthest part of his extremities. Growing more restless by the minute, he leaned into the burning sunlight to study the weather conditions again, trying to avert his gaze to avoid being blinded and remain clear-sighted. Discovering no noticeable changes in the weather conditions, he decided to pack up his things and move them into the rented 4x4 that was parked behind him; the vehicle slightly tilted to the side due to the uneven ground it was left on.

Dropping the last few bags into the back seat and folding the table and storing it in the boot, the man went to grab the walkie-talkie from the table, licking his lips to combat the dry skin. The black device burned at the touch but he didn’t care and pushed the ‘send’ button with determination.

“ _ JD to Roland, come in, _ ” he called into the device.

“ _ Roland, go, _ ” the buzzing voice answered almost immediately.

“ _ I think we’ll be fine now. The weather is clear and no changes in the direction of the wind as far as I can see. I’m packed up and ready to leave for MC2. I’ll see you there. _ ” he stated, his voice evoking the sense of disinterest in a discussion on the matter.

“ _ I see, affirmative. We’ll prepare a spot for your arrival, _ ” the voice answered readily but was reluctant to continue. “ _ I’m afraid, we’ve still no news on their whereabouts. They seem to have passed the third checkpoint but according to other teams, Fleur and Paula have yet to be seen again. We fear they may have had a wreck. _ ”

There, the words that he had dreaded to hear all this time had been finally uttered, the reluctance only adding to the frightening nature of their implication. Fear struck at his heart as his mind reeled from renewed images of bent metal and black smoke rising to the sky. The possible reasons for why Fleur and her co-driver Paula were delayed couldn’t be counted on his two hands alone. The sheer amount of conceivable reasons simply outnumbered his fingers one hundred to one. He fought the urge to yell at the device in his hands. He couldn’t shout at people simply because he wanted to, it wouldn’t help anyone, much less those who went missing in the hills of the Pyrenees. Jean held on to the device in his hand much tighter than he did a second ago, his voice sounding much calmer than he’d expected.

“ _ I’m coming down. This is ridiculous. People don’t just up and disappear. This isn’t a desert, we’re in France for God’s sake. Find them! _ ” he instructed firmly, “ _ JD out. _ ”

Lowering the walkie-talkie to his side and re-attaching it to his belt, he looked out to the almost endless line of the valley in front of him, his eyes scanning the skies for a signal. Something that may pinpoint the women’s location. Anything that would calm the fast-paced beat of his heart. 

As the seconds dragged on, he quickly accepted that fate and fortune never agreed to meet one’s wishes and that he had little choice but to hope and pray that his eldest daughter knew her way out of whatever situation she’d found herself in. 

She had, for better or for worse, to do this on her own.

###

The car sat motionless at the bottom of a relatively steep incline, a few dozen metres away from the road they’d exited just a while ago. The two women who’d driven the car up until then had to make an emergency stop as white smoke emerged from below the hood of their old but heavily modified Peugeot 205 GTI.

Fearing a total mechanical failure due to overheating, Paula had suggested they stop despite Fleur’s hesitance to forfeit their lead over the competition. The latter had relented once the valves of their engine had begun to rattle noisily, indicating that the engine had in fact begun to overheat and cook the oil that was lubricating the overhead camshaft. The viscosity of the oil would have continued to lubricate the mechanical parts but the rise in temperature would also have had an impact on the head gasket that separated the coolant from the oil. Once that seal was ruptured, water would make its way into the combustion chamber and damage the engine. 

Fixing a water leak was one thing, overhauling or replacing an entire engine would spell catastrophe for the rest of the championship. The time penalty would be so severe Fleur would have no chance to remedy it no matter how talented and fast she thought she was.

They’d been stranded for a long time now, Fleur’s head dipped below the surface of the engine compartment, still searching for the leak that hindered them from continuing their race to the second main control point, also known as the finish line. Paula, the copilot paced impatiently next to the car, the heat of the sun drenching her in her sweat. With her racing overall’s sleeves slung about her hip, the undershirt clung to her skin, the lines of her sports bra’s outline perfectly visible. 

“ _ Forget it, Fleur. The car is through. We’ll never make it in time, _ ” Paula repeated as she fanned her face with her hand, trying and failing to cool herself under the merciless sun.

The frustrated words of the older woman bounced right off Fleur’s ears. Her head was still hiding within the valley of the engine compartment, her eyes scanning the water lines leading to and from the radiator. The heat rising from the engine and down from the sun above almost roasted her. Angry words from the stressed individual next to her couldn’t possibly add to her already intense sense of discomfort. 

If she didn’t already feel like she’d melt at the increase of one more centigrade Celsius, she’d have opted to set the woman on fire with the snap of her finger. Instead, she straightened and gave Paula a focussed gaze, the Veela behind the unassuming eyes thrashing at the chains.

“ _ All we need to do is find that leak. Once we seal it up, we’ll be back on our way. But before we can even fathom doing any of that I’d need water. Would you consider helping me by fetching me some water from the river over there?”  _ She raised her hand to point into the general direction behind the older woman. _ “Until you return with water, there isn’t much I can do over here. The longer we wait and bemoan our bad luck, the less likely I can rectify the delay in the upcoming stages. I’m not forfeiting this run just because you didn’t want to help. _ ” 

Noticing that Paula had yet to make a move from her position by even a millimetre, Fleur moved away from the engine and faced her colleague, her jaw set in a tight clench. She breathed a calming breath and steeled her voice to clarify their situation to her colleague.

“ _ I am the primary driver, Paula. I can’t be bothered to run in the sun and get the water. You, however, can because you are less vital in this situation. Therefore, you are the dispensable element here. Now be more helpful and get that damn water already. _ ” The words came out grittier than she had intended but the heat was also getting to her and, frankly, she had almost no patience to spare. What surprised her more was that Paula, as the senior of the two, had so little will to continue in the face of adversity. 

Paula stopped her fanning and glared at the younger woman, her face becoming a map split by blood vessels. Her neck widened at the displeasure that waited to explode out of her.

“ _ Now you listen to me, _ ” she began while pointing a finger at Fleur. “ _ Your father may be the team owner and he may be the one paying my salary, but I won’t be treated like this by his stuck up daughter who thinks she’s the hottest stuff around here. You're just a kid with an inkling of talent whose father has financed her entire career, whereas I have spent the last twenty years developing my skills and talent and dealing with fucking sexism. _ ” 

She paused, realizing that she’d just thrown a tantrum, and swallowed to drown the rest of the tirade that waited to burst from her chest. Averting her gaze to hide her embarrassment at the outburst, she turned her body away from the silvery-blonde-haired young woman to give herself space to normalize her hot tone. 

“ _ When I’m telling you that the run is over, then it’s over. Not because I’m lazy or hopeless, but because the situation is unsalvageable, and dying of a heat stroke in the middle of this,”  _ she waved at the environment, searching for a fitting word only to settle on, _ “‘dump’ for your unrealistic expectations is simply not worth it.” _

Raising her cloth-covered elbow to her face, Paula wiped at the sweat running into her eyes, blinding her with burning stings. Eyes clear again, she sighed at the sudden, apparent exhaustion that spread from her forehead toward the rest of her melting body. 

The sun continued to whip its scorching rays into their bodies.

_ “Fleur, stop being a brat and call it quits right here. Let the team come pick us up and get back to camp. This is senseless, _ ” she tried to reason, her voice finally lacking spirit.

Fleur didn’t react to the words and remained perfectly still, her eyes tracking the pacing woman’s pacing with a predatory gleam.

Paula, who had her back turned to the Veela, seemed to have taken the younger woman’s lack of a response as a sign that Fleur had seen reason and would follow her instructions. What she’d failed to notice was that Fleur had been moving her lips without making a noticeable sound. Getting slightly dizzy, Paula leaned herself against the car while holding her increasingly spinning head. 

“ _ What the…? _ ” she began saying before mumbling something incoherent and falling into a heap next to the car, kicking up dust in her wake.

Eying her unmoving body on the ground, Fleur checked whether anyone else had witnessed the loud exchange before she pulled a wand from inside the leg of her racing overalls. The wood felt moist to her touch, the reason why making her feel dirty.

Uttering a quiet levitation spell, she carefully raised and deposited Paula’s limp body in the co-drivers seat of the Peugeot. Tightening the chinstrap of the helmet and securing the body in the safety harnesses, Fleur ensured that Paula wouldn’t risk injuring herself when they’d made their way back onto the dusty road. Satisfied, she closed the door and turned for the engine compartment with a fleeting glance at the plexiglass window of Paula’s door that exposed a distorted but still clear enough image of herself.

Stopping in her tracks, she took a hasty step closer to inspect the reflection in the glass where she first noticed that she had begun her transformation into her avian form. The change was still just minor as her human features were still quite prevalent but her skin had started to make way for the tiniest threads of her light blue feathers.

Stepping away, she closed her eyes and practised her calming technique that she’d learned from her mother. It was a skill that every adult Veela would no longer need once their maturation was complete. Fleur, as an older teen, was still in her maturation period and prone to accidental transformations if provoked strongly enough. She, therefore, required mental cantrips that would centre her irate emotions. Many young Veela like her had to learn to control their emotions in their formative years, lest they never grow to grip their inner wild being by the beak. 

Sensing the unintended transformation retreat, she opened her eyes and stepped toward the window again to study the skin on her face before checking the rest of her exposed arms. Her body having seemingly reverted to a fully human form, she stepped toward the engine compartment again and looked over her shoulder to check again for onlookers. 

Encouraged by the continued absence of prying eyes, she drew her wand to cast two spells. One  _ Reparo _ to quickly find the leak in the cooling system and fix it and  _ Aguamenti _ to pour water into the radiator of the car. Using the chance, she bent over and summoned another round of water to soak her head of hair that swiftly banished the uncomfortable heat that had been roasting her brain.

Satisfied that she’d done all she could on that end, she dropped the hood of the car and collected the few tools she’d used before to find the problem in the muggle way. Having stowed everything in the back, she dropped the rear hatch and jumped into the driver's seat, strapping her helmet to her head and securing her safety harness. Glancing over to the passenger side of the car, she found Paula still sound asleep, still unaware of what had transpired.

Having completed her accelerated safety procedures, she started up the car and feathered the gas pedal. The car’s engine roared to life with a reluctant cough and upon engaging the first gear, lurched forward as if slapped on the back.

Making her way back up the ledge from where they had originally driven off the course, Fleur couldn’t stop a smile from forming on her face - she was back in the race again. 

Due to their extensive memorization of the course’s layout, Fleur knew the roads by heart but the lack of a co-driver giving her instructions weighed on the young woman’s mind as she shaved past guard rails and mountain walls. Despite how close she came to the deadly objects, she continued to drive the car forward.

The constant bang coming out of the exhaust after she shifted gear and the whine of the differential, as well as the roar of the engine, served as reminders that not everything was lost and that there was still something that could be gained. It was now down to her and her noble Peugeot to make up for lost time.

Gradually getting back into her rhythm as a driver, she began mumbling the memorized pacenotes that were written down in Paula’s booklet. Doing so, she managed to swerve the lion-themed car to take turns and curves efficiently enough to gain ground. Finding courage in her seemingly good performance and the stable temperature of the car, she upped the ante and took bigger risks at every coming turn. 

The kicked-up dust blocked the sight in the rear-view mirror but she didn’t care. What lay ahead mattered more as she pushed and pushed, and cut centimetre for centimetre at any given chance. The wheels of the car groaned under the stress and the door rattled at every pothole in the dusty road. 

Her emotions ran high and her skin formed goosebumps.  _ Yes, this was it. This was what it all was about.  _ The excitement of speed, the danger and the success once crossing the finishing line. These were the things she did this for.

Her eyes sharpened to look so far ahead she could plan her next moves early. She engaged the clutch half a second earlier than before, pushing the brake with her toe while feathering the gas pedal with her heel. Bring the mass of the car forward and toss it to the side to slide around a hairpin corner with the grace of an elephant wearing ballet shoes.

The fans waving and urging her forward with their loud calls didn’t distract her. She’d long forgotten they were even there, even if they’d jump out of her way mere metres from impact. Her eyes were already looking dozens of metres ahead, her focus already on the next moves to take. 

Fleur’s body moved comfortably with the flowing sways of the car, her hands and feet worked the steering, pedals and gear shifter in perfect concert. She was the conductor and the car was her orchestra. She’d decide and the car would follow. 

_ No _ , that wasn’t it. The car was  _ her. _

She felt it. It was a feeling every other racing driver hoped to experience in every race, the experience of  _ the perfect lap. _

She no longer thought about it and just  _ did _ . 

Even though she was almost taking off from the ground and the car struggled to hold on to the road beneath it, it felt like the world was slowing down, waiting for her to decide the next course. 

Then she could see it. A large white banner with the black letters printed on it that she had so desperately been hoping to reach as fast as she could force her Peugeot’s two litre engine to go. 

Suddenly seeing the finish line fast approaching, Fleur’s heart began to fall into a false sense of safety before her memory jerked back into action and reminded her of the second to last pacenote in Paula’s booklet.

“100J! D/C,” she whispered apprehensively to herself.

_ 100 metres, Caution Jump, Don’t Cut corners! _

As she glanced at her tachometer, she felt time slow, her heart beating loudly in her ears. The fiercely pumping organ drowned the noise around in the car.

‘ _ I’m going 160km/h and the jump is just ahead, _ ’ she reminded herself, trying to instil calmness in herself.

‘ _ I turn at the wheel too much, I’ll go into a horizontal spin and I’ll crash _ .’

‘ _ I hold the gas too long, the car will drop its nose too early and I’ll crash. _ ’

‘ _ I let off early, the car might drop its rear too early and I’ll crash. _ ’

No matter how she pondered the possible outcomes in those few seconds, an answer to her fear of taking flight in a metal cage seemed growingly irrelevant as the drop approached the car at terrifying speed.

Steeling her nerves, she trusted her instincts and acted accordingly. The moment the car left the ground, Fleur felt a tickling in her belly, a natural response to the feeling of weightlessness. Paula’s hand appeared before her, the former’s entire arm having been raised due to its limp state. Just as she was about to grab the floating hand, gravity pulled them back to earth again, the trip through the air ending with a resounding bang back onto the road.

Fleur had to hold onto the steering wheel tightly and counter the Peugeot’s uneven landing. The impact wasn’t as bad as she’d feared and was, therefore, able to maintain their direction safely. Just as she was trying to focus her eyes toward the far end of the road, she had passed the second main control point.

Punching the brakes hard, the wheels squealed in protest, burning at the sudden torture, releasing the pungent odour of stinking, scorched rubber into the cab of the car. Once they had stopped, she turned the engine off and breathed heavily, dropping her head against the headrest of her seat. Closing her eyes, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. 

She’d made it.

###

“ _ Tell me what happened, Fleur, _ ” Jean demanded seriously, his face entirely unamused by her performance at her unwillingness to confess to what had transpired out there.

Fleur remained quiet, her gaze looking past her father who stood opposite of her as his eyes observed the gears turning behind her eyes.

“ _ I need you to tell me what happened out there. I can’t fix this if you won’t give me anything to go on, _ ” the older man tried again, crossing his arms to emphasize his displeasure at her.

Still, Fleur remained unmoving, her features not betraying any guilt. On the contrary, she exhibited a sense of pride at what she had accomplished on her way to the finishing line. Perhaps, it was also out of spite at his disregard of her seemingly courageous and determined effort to succeed in spite of overwhelming hopelessness.

Visibly growing impatient with his daughter, Jean sighed in frustration, his hand massaging the bridge of his nose to relieve the agitating pressure building up there.

He took another breath and opened his mouth to try and convince his eldest daughter to tell him about what had happened on the road. He considered guilting her into telling him.

“ _ Paula was completely out of it. She was disoriented, confused and utterly unaware of how she got here. All she seems to remember is that you had an unfortunate mechanical failure and went off the road to inspect the issue. Am I correct so far? _ ” he recounted while he eyed his daughter, her face remaining impassive at his line of statements he’d heard from the dazed co-driver.

Fleur returned her focus on her father, her ocean blue eyes studying him. Recognizing that simply telling him about the disagreement wouldn’t matter anyway. What had happened, happened. Her head dipped slightly until it grew into a full nod, confirming her father’s retelling of events.

“ _ But that is not all that happened, is it? _ ” Happier now that she had chosen to react, he prodded further, using the momentum to urge her to tell him more.

“ _ No, but I don’t see how it matters, _ ” she finally replied, an irked huff almost escaping her. She’d it made it to the finish line, hadn’t she?

“ _ It doesn’t matter? _ ” he paraphrased with a tone of disbelief. He let her reply bounce around his mind, contemplating her defiant behaviour. Her reluctance to give an immediate answer seemed strangely infantile and wholly unusual for her. The only times she would ever behave like this was when she had done something she’d found embarrassing. The nature of her attitude forced him to come to a troubling conclusion.

“ _ Fleur, tell me you didn’t use magic on her. _ ” His voice lacked humour, the time for childishness long over. Answers were now needed to combat the clouds that formed in his mind. If Fleur had done something and Paula remembered, there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t act preemptively.

Her previous bravado evaporated and finally made way for a crack in her facade, a twinge of guilt escaped her eyes.

Jean sighed again. His body relaxed from his rigid posture but he maintained the distance between them. If he wanted to discipline her, he had to make sure that she understood his position.

Considering why she would resort to using magic, he opted to offer her an olive branch. “ _ Did she attack you? Did she hurt you- _ ”

“ _ No!” _ she suddenly interrupted him, her foot moving one step closer to him in her fervour. 

“ _ Then what was it that made you use magic? _ ” he rephrased at her instinctive lurch.

She couldn’t help but let her embarrassment show, feeling like she was the little girl again that had set fire to her mother’s precious curtains. “ _ It’s stupid. _ ”

“ _ I’ll decide what’s stupid and what’s not _ ,” he clarified, his patience thinned with each minute that passed without her full confession. “ _ What made you use it? _ ”

“Paula _ was being a complete  _ **_bitch_ ** _ out there, Papa _ ,” she replied hotly, her disregard for decorum disappearing regardless of any possible eavesdroppers. She didn’t care who listened and what they would think of her choice of words, regardless of whether her father had put up privacy charms or not. She wanted this interrogation to be over.

Jean didn’t rise to the use of the expletive and threw her choice of words right back at her, punishing her use of language with his tone alone. “ _ And because she’s a  _ **_bitch_ ** _ you knock her unconscious? _ ”

Her eyes widened at his premature conclusion. Shaking her head at him, she made sure to correct him and understand that she wasn’t the guilty party. “ _ I didn’t knock anyone out. _ ”

“ _ Then what did you do? _ ”

“Nothing,  _ I just sang, _ ” she finally confessed, her eyes jumping across the length of the dirt on the ground.

“ _ You sang? _ ” he repeated, raising his eyebrows in question. The response struck him as odd and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. A sense of deja vu appeared to him but he couldn’t place the feeling with its original memory.

Watching her father’s eyes process her cryptic response, Fleur cleared her throat to clarify what her ‘singing’ entailed and prepared herself for hell to freeze at his reaction. “ _ I was trying to fix a water leak that seemed to have reopened in the radiator while Paula spent her time bemoaning our misfortune. When I asked her to fetch us some water to help me find the leak, she outright refused to cooperate. She told me how it’s a ridiculous idea to think that we’d still have anything left to gain. _ ”

Still not seeing it, he frowned at her with a shake to his head. “ _ And then what? You  _ **_sang_ ** _ to her face? _ ”

“ _ Hm-m _ ,” she hummed in the negative. 

“ _ She didn’t exactly watch me as I began my spell. She’d started this strange monologue about her not so illustrious career. So while she turned away from me I pushed more magic into my voice and before I knew it, she collapsed on herself - dropped like a rock. _ ” She moved her hand in a gesture to emphasize the ‘drop’ part.

Going through what she’d just told him, he still couldn’t connect the dots of what had happened. Her explanation seemed to revolve around the assumption that he’d understood what she was referring to. 

“ _ Spell? Singing? What are you even getting at? _ ” His head continued to shake at each word.

“ _ I used a frequency she couldn’t have possibly been able to hear. It’s genius, really, _ ” she clarified, hoping he would finally infer what she meant.

“ _ Used a different frequ-? _ ” he muttered before realization dawned on him. His face formed a look of shock that slackened the skin on it. Pulling himself together, his voice came out louder than he’d intended. “ _ Fleur, did you transform in front of that woman? _ ”

Her eyes widened at the question. Quickly, she waved her hands wildly at him, attempting to relativize what happened.

“ _No. At least not fully, I mean,”_ she uttered, unsure how to best explain it. She wasn’t actually sure if Paula had noticed anything. _“I don’t think she saw anything, and it was just the barest change of my skin. Her actions gave me no indication that she might have noticed anything. So I’m quite sure she didn’t_.”

Jean listened to her tentatively, absorbing each word and mannerism to verify the honesty of her words. Finding nothing that would make him believe otherwise he couldn’t help but look at her, his face forming the perfect picture of disappointment.

“ _ Maybe Maxime was right to recommend you stop your racing aspirations, _ ” he began, raising his hand to halt his daughter's sudden jerk to disagree.

“ _ At least for now _ ,” he clarified. “ _ The Triwizard Tournament is taking place this year and Beauxbatons has been chosen as one of the schools to participate in it. You, as the most promising student of your year, are therefore expected to go and attend this competition. _ ”

The words felt like cold water crashing down on her. While this wasn't news to her, she felt like it was a punishment for her behaviour during the race. The two things were clearly separate matters but it served to renew her anger at Paula, who sat outside with confusion still marring her features. 

Clenching her teeth, Fleur remembered Madame Maxime’s instructions for the training she was given to prepare for the legendary magical tournament. And while it was indeed a prestigious event, Fleur didn’t quite feel like she’d benefit as much as other wizards or witches would. If she won, and in her mind she definitely stood a chance to do so, then she would receive a prize only a magical would really be able to employ for the future. In respect to her racing dreams, a trophy to mark her success at a magical tournament meant little. 

“ _ I know. She’d told me at the end of last year. I’ve been training since then. Remember? Mother’s tree suffered one of my mishaps, _ ” she admitted, shaking her head at her failed casting of a new spell she’d been gifted by her headmistress. Apolline had lamented the partial destruction of her favourite tree, giving her oldest daughter the most distressing glare she could muster. A shudder travelled down her spine at the memory.

“ _ Consider this then,”  _ her father suddenly announced, his calmer voice and appearance wiping away her discomfort. _ “Since you still struggle to control your Veela nature, use the opportunity of going to England and participating in this tournament as a means to test your mettle. Meet new people and make friends.” _

_ “Take a break from all this,”  _ he let his hand travel around them, _ “and spend some time with fellow wizards and witches your age. Who knows, you might just benefit from a change in pace. _ ”

She nodded dejectedly at that and glanced toward the exit of their tent, her gaze falling on Paula’s backside sat upon one of the camping chairs.

“ _ What about Paula? _ ” she asked her father, nodding her face at the entrance of the tent. The wind occasionally pushed the gap wider to expose what transpired outside.

A frown forming on his face, he turned to follow her gaze. Upon recognizing the subject of her question, he sighed tiredly.

_ “I’ll deal with it. If she remembers anything compromising, I’ll simply obliviate her and that will be the end of it. If she doesn’t, then that’s fine too, _ ” he explained, his shoulder offering a simple shrug.

“ _ Either way, I’ll probably rotate her and partner you with somebody else once you’re back from Britain. Perhaps her lacking success as a co-driver has gotten her so frustrated she unnecessarily unloaded it on you _ .”

Fleur remained quiet at that but loosened her low ponytail to allow her silvery-gold mane to fall freely around her shoulders. Massaging her scalp she moaned slightly in relief.

Taking notice of her silence, Jean went to add something else.

“ _ In terms of your sportsmanship, you’ve done nothing wrong. It was a lousy situation and you simply tried to remain positive, if a bit zealously, I admit. But it was certainly better than Paula’s defeatist attitude _ .” 

His final conclusion to the events of the race pleased her, the burden falling from her shoulders. Having his blessing or getting praised always left her wanting more, no matter how childish it made her feel. Stepping up on the podium and waving down at him while he gazed at her with pride was a long-held dream of hers. It was one she had every intention of achieving. 

“ _ There is always something that can be done, _ ” she mused aloud, not looking at him.

“ _ There is always something that can be gained, _ ” he nodded in agreement. 

Finally allowing a smile for his daughter, he held her by the shoulder before he turned to leave the tent but stopped again to speak to her.

“ _ Pack your things and wait for me at the rental. We’ll go home together. _ ”

After watching her father disappear through the gap in the tent, Fleur began collecting her things and packing them in her go-bag. The events of the day still going through her head, she regretted the way she’d handled it. Fleur began berating herself for her rather infantile solution to her problem that was Paula. 

Satisfied that she packed all her belongings she nodded to herself before following her father through the same gap he had just disappeared through mere minutes ago.

###

**Later that day, in the afternoon...**

Black Manor, London, England

The sound of a wrench’s ticking could be heard from the garage that was attached to the side of the house, along with the occasional curse echoing out through the large open door of the space. The rare sunlight of English weather illuminated the front of Harry’s project race car, still showing its bare condition that awaited parts to garnish its chassis.

Standing at the workbench, Harry studied an object in his hand with great concentration, muttering words to himself in deliberation.

“You piece of crap that has come from the blazes of Tartaros. Why won’t you work?” he growled to himself.

Turning the part over and over in his hand, he grew increasingly frustrated before sighing in defeat. Placing the part on the workbench under the bright neon light illuminating the working surface, he placed his hands on the bench and glanced over to a thin booklet that seemed to look like a repair manual for air compressors and turbochargers.

Deep in thought, Harry didn’t notice the person approaching the house from the road, despite the gravel amplifying the movement with noisy crunches. He also failed to hear the attention-seeking knock coming off the frame of the garage door.

“Harry?” The female voice called, the way in which his name came of their lips espousing a sense of familiarity with the word.

“Huh?” He jerked, his body immediately straightening up and turning toward the origin of the call.

Recognizing the person grinning at him from the large opening of the garage door, he couldn’t help but squint at her uncomfortably. The windows of the neighbouring houses reflected the waning sunlight, blinding him horribly.

“Hermione, what are  _ you  _ doing here?” He asked her once she’d realized his discomfort and moved closer to stand inside his holy space.

Her grin dropped to a flat line as his question seemed rather dull to her. She decided to humour him and answer with the obvious. “I came to visit.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I didn’t expect you here.”

“Well, we could have remedied that if you’d only finally answered your phone.”

“Oh.” It was the only reply he could offer. He hadn’t realized that Celine and Sirius leaving the house would require him to answer any calls to the manor. The staff were instructed not to respond to telephone calls to avoid misunderstandings, should they forget to inform their employers. It was therefore easier ‘not to be home’ than ‘forgetting to remember a call’. It was quite possible that Hermione had called and simply decided to come visit on a whim. It was also kind of odd to do that as well. Clearly, Hermione was as smart as she was  _ odd _ . He snickered at the thought.

“Quite.” She eyed him, his amusement not making much sense to her.

“My bad, I guess,” he admitted finally with a kind shrug, scratching his head.

“It’s fine,” she waved the unneeded apology off with a lazy hand, “I am the one imposing, after all.”

He couldn’t agree with her sentiment, finding her sudden appearance a very welcome surprise. He hadn’t often had people come over. His godfather had chosen to keep people at arm’s length, always opting to approach and visit others rather than invite anyone to their spacious and ballroom-worthy rooms. Celine had agreed with him on that but cited her position as housemaid as something unbecoming of telling the ‘man of the house’ what to do. He was sure that was absolute nonsense. While the two adults played the role of master and housemaid to the best of their ability, he knew perfectly well how infatuated they had always been with each other. He was a teenager, not blind.

Seeing Hermione grow uncomfortable at the silence, Harry quickly made to correct her previous statement. “You’re not.” 

At his dismissal of her self-deprecation, she couldn’t help but smile “Thanks.”

He looked at her, studying her attire. She came wearing a shirt exposing her neckline that was garnished with a beautiful necklace, carrying a golden lion. The tight jeans hugging her legs and the red sneakers on her feet made her look more mature but also a lot cooler than Harry was used to. Her eyes bore a breath of dark make-up, bringing out the shine in her brown eyes. The usually bushy head of hair was straightened and pulled into a low ponytail with strands for bangs to frame her beautiful face.

Unaware that his face had become slack-jawed, he opened and closed his mouth like a fish swallowing water. Slowly regaining control of his features, he uttered the first words he could manage to pronounce without sounding as stupid as he felt. “You look different.”

“What?”

Alarmed at his faux-pas, he jumped for a more appropriate response in his mind, figuratively grasping at straws as his mind went blank. He hadn’t had this problem before with Hermione. Never felt this out of place in front of her before.

“You seem…,” he tried again, only to stop mid-sentence again.  _ God, somebody please dig a hole for me right now _ , groaned inwardly. 

Watching him squirm, she raised an expectant eyebrow at him. She suspected what he was going through but wouldn’t leave him a door to escape through. Instead, she went to make it worse. “Yes?”

“You look good,” he mumbled, before averting his gaze to look as if he was studying the science that was behind the invention of the garage door. It was the best he could do.

A small but genuine smile formed on her face, the white of her teeth peeking out briefly. His response seemed to have had the desired effect, or maybe it had made it worse.

“Well, thanks for noticing,” she responded, her sudden shy behaviour putting him on the back foot again. Watching her nervous face he nodded dumbly, his own face trying its hardest not to smile awkwardly at her.

Finally giggling at him, she moved away from the spot in front of him and made her way toward his rusty Mercedes. The hood was still missing, allowing her to study the project in its entirety.

“So, what is it you’re doing exactly? Oh, and also, language, Harry,” she admonished him. “I could hear you curse from the bus stop. If I didn’t know you, I’d have believed you to be a rather rude individual.”

Embarrassed by her berating him, Harry bowed his head in shame.

“I didn’t yell so loud,” He argued meekly, rubbing at his neck again. Playing cute did work sometimes.

Seemingly unperturbed by his display, she went to eye him evenly.“‘Blazes of Tartaros’?”

Smiling wryly, he nodded defeatedly, “Right, I might have said that.”

Sighing, Hermione studied the garage in more depth, letting her gaze travel around, spying the occasional mess and pile of dirty rags. Leaning down on the frontal crossmember of Harry's car, she studied the condition it was in before shaking her head at him.

“I may be a bookworm, Harry,” she began seriously, “but this car strikes me as quite incomplete. I don’t believe an engine compartment should be this empty.”

Harry, gladdened by her change in subject, moved closer to the car and leaned on the fender next to her.

“It is almost complete, actually,” he corrected knowingly. The accusation of mishandling his car didn’t sit right with him. “What you’re probably thinking of are cars with much bigger engines that occupy more of their engine compartments. This prime example is a 2-Litre 4-Cylinder EJ boxer-engine that I salvaged off of a Subaru Impreza. It came with this sweet turbo,” Harry pointed at the workbench, “and a programmable ECU for chip tuning. It’s every boy’s wet dream.”

“I see,” Hermione nodded before turning to him with a question on her lips. ”So if this engine is so brilliant, why then are you cursing it to heaven for everyone to hear?”

“Well,” his lips pursed, “the turbo isn’t exactly working. If it did, the engine would produce wondrous amounts of power, but it doesn’t. I’ve tried messing with it but it’s not improving. Frankly, I’m inclined to try and find a different one to replace it but these don’t come cheap.”

Understanding what he tried to convey, she thought about how she could help him. Remembering their previous conversation, she jumped to remind him of something he’d told her, “Can’t you buy one with Mr Weasley’s money?”

He nodded at her but his face didn’t translate any joy at her idea. Instead, it showed that he’d already thought about it before and only come to realize it wouldn’t help. “I could but I already planned to spend it on different parts that I require as well.”

His shrug deflated her premature excitement. Thinking more on it, an idea came to mind she hadn’t considered at all. 

“Perhaps,” she started reluctantly, her demeanour generally unsure, “I can jump in and have it fixed for you.”

Having no intention to intrude on her, he made sure to nip the offer in the bud. Any attempt to fix the turbo would put her in the red. He couldn’t possibly exploit her generosity like that. He wouldn’t. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out. I always do.” 

Frowning at him and his immediate decline of her help, she raised to place her hands on her hips. With a tilt to her head, she went to prod him right there. “Will you fix it or replace it, then?”

“I’ll probably replace it. No point trying to find out if it’s completely unusable,” he replied honestly. He wouldn’t exploit her generosity but he wouldn’t also lie to her about what he’d rather do with the broken component.

“Then give it to me,” she demanded, extending her hand toward him, a no-nonsense look gazing at him. “Maybe I can do _something_.”

Her serious expression intimidated him but he tried his best not to show how much. The gaze seemed like it would allow for no tomfoolery. Sighing in defeat, he said the only thing that would define how he felt about this. “Fine. Take it, you monster.”

Smirking at her victory, she grabbed the turbine-looking object appreciatively, turning it over in her hand gingerly. “I can be a monster when I have to be.”

But before she could bathe in her overwhelming victory, an awkward silence fell between them. Harry’s eyebrows moved to hide in the wild black patch of his scalp at the sight of Hermione’s palms.

Hermione, who seemed to have noticed his displeased look, nodded to confirm his reaction.“Yeah, I might ne-”

“You need a bag,” he finished as he slapped his palm on his forehead.

“I might yes,” she confirmed awkwardly.

Searching the garage, he failed to find a suitable bag to put the car part in. Finding Hermione still holding the object awkwardly as she was studying the grease spots forming on her palms, he groaned to himself.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t even stop to think to at least clean the damn thing.”

Hermione shook her head at him. While it sure looked like she may have to walk around with dirty hands, she didn’t mind all that much. It would just be another funny memory of both of them together. “It’s fine. I just need a bag and directions to the bathroom to wash my hands.”

“Right, that’s a rather good idea,” he admitted, his demeanour screaming his embarrassment.

Considering how Celine might feel about oil and grease stains making their way into their bathroom, he shivered in fear. He didn’t let it show and instead focussed his attention on how to remedy his idiocy. “I’m a ghastly host. I didn’t even think to offer you tea.”

Observing the wild mix of emotion run across his face, she worked hard not to let her amusement show. Harry was clearly not in his element. She’d never come to his home before and perhaps it flustered him more than she’d expected. She didn’t know why but it made her happy that she may be the first visitor he had in awhile. Moving again to dissuade him from panicking too much, she almost grabbed him by the arm but remembered that her hands were stained. Pulling her hand back, she simply instructed him on how to proceed. “Really, Harry, it’s fine. You just lead the way and I’ll follow. I won’t touch anything.”

Nodding to himself, he went to clean his hands with the closest rag and turned off the lights above the workbench. Moving toward the door leading into the home, he opened and disappeared through it, leaving Hermione to herself and her thoughts in the now darker garage.

Making sure Harry was well outside of earshot she moved to place the part back on the workbench and pulled out her wand, pointing it at the metal object. Whispering a quiet  _ Reparo _ to which the turbine-looking object responded with a discreet wiggle, she took it as a sign that it worked. She failed however to notice the subtle ripple that travelled along the walls and ended on a glowing rune in the deepest corner of the garage.

“Hermione?” Harry called worriedly from inside the house.

“Coming!” she responded loudly, quickly shoving her wand into the pocket and grabbing the repaired object before swiftly making her way through the door and closing it behind her.

**End of Chapter**

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, I hope you liked it and will leave a comment of your thoughts. I love to read them and learn from your observations. 
> 
> If you’re interested, you can come and discuss the fic with me on my dedicated Keeping Pace discord server at discord . gg / uE6Xkj2V (Remove Spaces). 
> 
> And, as usual, if the Harry/ Fleur or the Fleur/ Harry pairing floats your boat as much as it does mine, then please do come and join us at our Flowerpot server at discord . gg / k8ZxUjE (Remove Spaces).
> 
> Cheers!


	4. Heavy it Weighs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys, please find attached my new chapter. Again, I appreciate the comments, kudos, and subs. Please do continue to leave me your thoughts. I’m testing something with this chapter and your take would be invaluable to me for the future.
> 
> Betas: As usual, please join me in thanking Darkened Void and Crippled Witcher for their extensive beta work. Without them, this chapter would have looked and read far worse. Present mistakes are on me.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the HP universe or the mentioned brand names in this story, they belong to the appropriate entities that brought them into this world.
> 
> Please enjoy.

**Chapter 3:** Heavy it Weighs

**August 27th, 1994**

Atrium, Ministry of Magic, London, England

As Sirius stepped out of the fireplace and onto the dark but shiny marble floor of the Ministry’s atrium, he glanced at the shuffling workers rushing across the grand space, their hands clutching documents as tightly as goblins hoarded their gold. 

Despite the atrium’s large open space, the hardworking employees of the state still managed to knock into people and move on without a word. Their single-mindedness proved to be more prevalent than their care for their fellow man. New hires would still feel the embarrassment and stop to apologize for their careless behaviour but with age and experience, and a growing sense of self-importance, they would soon become uncompromising cogs in the machine that was the Ministry of Magic.

If Sirius were at least half the politician his father was, he would have visited the depressing place far more often and perhaps have learned to like its remarkably  _ dark _ and sterile atmosphere. Despite his upbringing being marked by his father’s keen effort to educate the firstborn of the Black family in the arts of oratory and manipulation, Sirius had never developed an innate love for court intrigue. Instead, he’d developed interests that most felt were quite unbecoming of a Black scion.

His sorting into Gryffindor ruffled a fair amount of feathers in the family, much more so for his immediate family.  _ A Black in Gryffindor _ , they’d gasped,  _ what a faux-pas.  _

Historically, Blacks had  _ somehow  _ been sorted into Slytherin without a single member doing otherwise; Except him. However, despite being sorted into Gryffindor, Orion had changed nothing of how he raised his heir.

The former head of house’s teachings bore fruit, albeit not in the way the old man had originally intended. Sirius had taken his father’s teachings to heart, yes, but used it mostly to sound, look and appear as the perfect pureblood lord one would expect from a member of the house of Black. Away from prying eyes and within the walls of his home, he’d revert to the man he really was and always had been.

Lost in his musings, Sirius walked leisurely across the busy plane of the Atrium, letting his focus shift from who walked toward, across or next to him. 

A younger man bumped right into his shoulder followed by the sound of a pile of papers falling on the marble floor; an almost silent curse escaped the fussing individual on the floor. The man, his hair as bright red as the waning sun, didn’t raise his gaze to look at Sirius and instead focussed on the sheets of paper that were encroached upon by the many feet rushing around him. With the dexterity of a cat, the young redhead fetched the papers from under impending steps, and carefully piled them into his other hand. It was quite an impressive act.

“Can’t you see where you’re going, man?” the man with red hair complained, his attention still on the few papers left on the floor. His voice, trained by years of reading aloud and reporting to superiors, didn’t leave any words to interpretation and caused Sirius to feel a small pang of shame at his lack of focus. However, he couldn’t possibly allow a minor ministry employee - he assumed he was given his age - treat him like the common rabble that stalked the insides of these walls.

“I’m terribly sorry for being such a nuisance,” Sirius drawled lazily, his face trained into a well-practised sneer. 

The man didn’t react to his verbal jab save for a subtle slowing of his movements. 

Sirius took that as a sign that the younger man had begun to understand his situation. “I must have had my head in the clouds. Please do forgive  _ my _ thoughtlessness.”

The redhead didn’t stop collecting his papers. Instead, he increased the pace of his movements and began to grab the few sheets of paper that remained on the ground, creating dog ears on some of them. Whoever would receive these, later on, would certainly unleash a decent amount of displeasure on the young man later.

“Lord Black!?” The young man gasped once his eyes met Sirius’ own, recognition and disbelief evident in his tone, the boy began to tremble slightly.

“Yes, it is I,” Sirius confirmed snobbishly. He raised his head to strengthen his look of mild amusement. The dishevelled man began to sweat profusely.  _ Yeah, this is more fun than I’d ever admit aloud. _

Realizing that he’d been staring at Sirius dumbly, the young man looked himself over and began dusting himself off, checking his attire for any errant creases in his clothing. Not at all satisfied with his appearance, the young man turned his eyes to Sirius’ stoic mien. The intensity in the older wizard’s eyes caused him to swallow at the nervous feeling in his gut.

“I did not know it was you,” he apologized truthfully, his body slightly hunched by his fear of being complained about to his superiors.

“I gathered that,” Sirius drawled, still holding on to his stone-faced look, his walking cane - which he didn’t really require but pureblood fashion _ demanded  _ it - comfortably lodged in his arm.

Seeing as his apology didn’t have the intended effect, the young redhead moved his lips without saying anything. Finally, he settled on an idea that allowed him to assume a more professional demeanour. Clearing his throat, the youngster straightened before speaking. 

“I’m on Ministry business, you see,” he announced proudly, pointing toward the papers clutched in his arm. “Very important business.”

“As it always is, I’m sure.”

Seeing that he’d finally bought himself some breathing room, the young man’s relief spread on his face. His chest puffed out in a prideful manner that attempted to make him seem more important than he really was. 

“Minister Fudge himself tasked me with delivering these,” he added suddenly, using the Minister’s name to give legitimacy to his blunder. 

Sirius didn’t let it bother him, reminding himself that even if the man opposite of him were actually important, their social standing would still put him on a higher pedestal. “Yes, the Minister, an important man he is,” he nodded at the younger man with a curt smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

After a moment of awkward silence, the redheaded man glanced around the atrium in search of something. His gaze still searching, he opened his mouth to speak. “Forgive my inquiry, Lord Black. Are you here on business? A session for the Wizengamot, perhaps?”

At the sudden change in tone, from one of pride to one of business, Sirius could only eye the man slowly before sighing quietly and accepting the question for the innocence it carried.

“Well, I’d answer that question in a heartbeat,” he began confidently before adopting a slow tone lined with suspicion, “but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are. I don’t usually divulge my own business to random employees. Even those on the  _ Minister’s _ business.”

The words struck the young man like a punch to the gut, leaving him to mouth words silently and look at Sirius dumbly.

“You don’t know who I am?” he asked him, flustered. The young man’s eyebrows disappeared behind his head of red hair. 

Hiding his snicker at the observation, Sirius did his best to seem as unemotional as he had thus far. “I’m afraid not, no. Should I?”

“Well...”

“Yes?” Sirius pressed.

Clearing his throat, the younger man tried to normalize his features and let his eyebrows lower back to their usual position.

“I’m terribly sorry for not introducing myself, Milord. I’m a common sight and am familiar to most people working in the ministry. I didn’t think you wouldn’t recognize me. The name is Weasley. Percival Weasley. But, please, do call me Percy,” he stated clearly, his hand stretched out toward Sirius in greeting.

Taking his outstretched hand, Sirius couldn’t help but put a touch more force into his grip than he usually would have. The pain shooting through the young office worker’s hand was hardly visible on his face. 

“Percy, then,” Sirius repeated.

Nodding at Sirius, Percy retracted his hand and massaged it with his other hand, the papers still clutched under his arm. Eying Sirius more closely, he finally noticed the Wizengamot robes wrapped around his lower arm, the insignia of the Ministry branded on them.

“Are you on your way to a session of the Wizengamot? Perhaps I can show you to the room.”

Sirius waved him off with the hand not holding his robes.

“It’s no bother. I can find my own way to the courtroom. And let’s not forget, you are on the Minister’s business.” Sirius nodded at the papers under Percy’s arm. “We can’t have you leading lost people around when you must see to the delivery of these important documents.”

Percy nodded in acceptance, a sigh of relief escaping him. “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Black. I shall leave you to your business then.”

Before the young man moved to rush off, an idea popped into Sirius' mind. “Tell me, are you related to Arthur Weasley?”

“Yes,” the young redhead nodded, “that would be my father, sir. Why do you ask?”

Gladdened by the fact that he’d happened to come across someone who’d point him in the right direction, Sirius decided to make use of the man. “You see, I received a letter from him only a few days ago and decided to pay him a visit and ask him in person about his business with me.”

“Business with you, sir?” The young man repeated, unsure he’d heard Sirius right but the latter remained silent, not providing an inkling of a reaction that would infer he cared for his question.

“Well, seeing as it is still before lunch,” Percy stated, checking the time with a quick  _ tempus _ before nodding, “he should be in his department right now before he’d go out for his inspections in the afternoon. If you still miss him in the morning, you’ll either have to come see him tomorrow morning, or you could let me know and I’ll see to it that he comes to see you at your estate.”

As time was of the essence for Sirius as well, he preferred to get the meeting over as soon as possible.

“I’m sure I will find him if I go see him now. Where would his department be?”

Percy went to point toward the elevators but reconsidered. Instead, he pulled out his wand and conjured a piece of paper. Casting a silent spell, the paper folded itself into a paper plane and hovered between the two men.

“Follow my guide and it’ll lead you to the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. It’s much simpler this way and saves you time.”

Checking the time with a quick  _ Tempus  _ again, Percy’s forehead formed lines of worry, his demeanour evoking a sense of urgency.

“I’m terribly sorry to leave you as quickly as I knocked into you, Lord Black, but I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer. These documents must be delivered immediately.” 

Sirius nodded and bade the young man farewell, the latter suddenly rushing off before Sirius could offer his verbal dismissal.

Shaking his head at Percy, Sirius snickered at the plane floating in front of his face, impatiently waiting for it to execute its purpose.

“Lead the way then, mate,” he instructed just above a whisper, his hand raised only slightly to offer the paper plane the way ahead.

The paper plane flew a small loop before racing forward, pulling Sirius along as if forced by invisible threads.

###

Using two different lifts and walking down endless amounts of stairs, the plane kept on zigzagging through the ministry. With each passing floor, the number of people rushing and talking around him became less, until the echo of his steps were among the last sounds he could hear.

Reaching a weathered door with the words ‘Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts’ plastered on its front, the plane came to a full stop and turned its sharp nose toward him. It began unfolding itself and refolded into what looked like a mouth. 

“Thank you for placing your trust in me, Lord Black. I wish you well and may we meet again soon,” the paper mouth announced, carrying Percy’s voice before ripping itself to shreds and, with a spark of a flame, burned itself to ashes.

After observing the charmed paper turn into nothing, Sirius turned to knock on the door with a gloved hand.

After a lengthy period of silence, Sirius knocked again and then again until he could hear the shuffling of papers and the groaning of wooden chairs being pushed across the floor, reminding him of a time long past spent in the Gryffindor common room. If he remembered correctly, the faded spots on the wood floor in the commons left by Remus’ regular visits to study would still be there. Perhaps, he’d have the opportunity to go and see for himself during his annual school board meeting in a week’s time.

The sound of the old door finally opening pulled Sirius out of his musings, revealing a man of similar age to himself but with much more grey hairs sprouting within the red.

“Mr Arthur Weasley, I presume?” Sirius inquired.

The man nodded. “Yes, how can I help you?”

“You sent me a letter not too long ago? About a meeting?” Sirius provided further.

Confusion marring the man’s features, he tilted his head in question only to raise an eyebrow in realization soon after.

“Merlin’s beard, right! Lord Black. Please, come in, come in,” Mr Weasley offered fussily, his body moving backwards to open a space for Sirius to walk through.

Moving to close the door behind Sirius, Mr Weasley then moved past him to pull out a chair in front of his desk. Placing piles of documents on the floor and dusting the chair off, he went back around his desk and offered his hand in invitation.

Unsure how to open the discussion, Mr Weasley went with the first thing that popped into his mind. “I hope finding this office wasn’t too much of a chore. I didn’t expect you to come and see me directly, given that it was me who had wished for this meeting. A place of your choice would have sufficed and I would have come instead.”

“Perish the thought,” Sirius countered, raising his hand to wave the other man’s worries off. “It was no chore at all. I was led here by your son…,” he paused to try and remember the young man’s name from earlier. ” Percival...yes, Percy I believe his name was. We had an unusual encounter earlier in the Atrium where he had acted unbecoming of a servant of the people. But his behaviour quickly improved once he realized who he had run into.”

“Ah yes, Percy can be  _ difficult _ when his career is concerned. I thank you for offering him guidance and I’m thrilled he was able to help you.” Mr Weasely nodded with a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He also left no further comment on the two men meeting. Sirius couldn’t quite tell but it seemed as though there were things going on between the two redheads that stretched further than familial disagreements.

“Please, forgive the mess,” Mr Weasley suddenly announced. “We've been having an increasing amount of reports coming in recently from people experiencing unfortunate mishaps with muggle kitchenware. Something about micro...or nanowaves setting their kitchens on fire. Fascinating objects, really. If only we could learn the proper use for them. Regretfully, I myself don’t know how they work either. I did try to toast a loaf of bread recently, but I never seem to get the settings on the device right. My bread always comes out charcoal black,” he recalled excitedly, the previous mention of his son seemingly forgotten.

Sirius chuckled at the man’s awed demeanour. It wasn’t common to find other pureblood wizards who found a use for muggle inventions, much less find them worthy of their admiration. “I find them most useful when cooking is too tiresome an effort. With a push of a button, a meal is piping hot.”

“Oh,” Mr Weasley reacted in astonishment, “please excuse my surprise, but I didn’t expect someone of your  _ pedigree  _ to fancy muggle appliances, let alone in the sanctity of your home.”

“Would it trouble you if I did?” Sirius asked, an eyebrow raised in question.

“No, far from it. I’m thrilled to see somebody of your social stature showing an interest in what has become my life’s work,” the man replied happily, the words ‘social’ and ‘stature’ receiving an emphasis.

“Ah,” Sirius offered, “I see. Well, don’t be too enthusiastic about my indulgences. I’m somewhat of a  _ black  _ sheep in my family.”

Mr Weasley was at a loss for words at first but laughed heartily shortly after, his voice bouncing off the walls of his office.

Wiping at his eyes with his palms, Mr Weasley calmed his breathing back to its normal pace and allowed his face to lose the scarlet colour of excitement. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward on his desk and focused his attention back onto Sirius. “I’m gladdened by your sense of humour. Most of the  _ higher-ups _ don’t partake in light banter.”

“Well, I’m happy to stand out then,” Sirius chuckled.

Mr Weasley eyed him with a genuine smile on his face, a subtle sigh escaping him. “If there were more people like you, Lord Black, the magical world would be a far more relaxed place.”

Sirius shook his head at Mr Weasley’s statement, “There are many who are just like yourself and me, walking this world. They are just afraid to stick out like sore thumbs and lose their place in it.”

“True, I can only agree with you on that point. The times have gotten tougher for muggle-borns. Increasingly so after the Potters perished,” Mr Weasley replied sagely, the fact only too clear to him.

Letting out another heavy sigh Mr Weasley pursed his lips. “If only the Potters were still around to push back against the tide of these conservatives,” he began dejectedly, his eyes looking at something far and away. “It's a fine thing to cherish tradition but it’s entirely different when you stifle everything else. Rubbish, all of it.”

The mention of the Potters drew Sirius’ attention and his back straightened uncomfortably in response. He didn’t like where this discussion was going and opted to change its course to something else.

“It may come as a surprise to you,” he started, ”but my father and uncle had been pushing back against them, as well. The conservatives, I mean.”

The constant reminder that his family had been perceived as  _ darker _ and inflexible to progress within popular opinion irritated him. The family creed of  _ Toujours Pur _ was often misinterpreted as a political statement when, actually, it was a reminder for those born into it. His father, Orion, had always believed in working toward the ideals he believed in.  _ Always be pure to yourself _ , he’d said,  _ and never let others dilute you. _ “

“Oh,” Mr Weasley’s mouth formed the word with his mouth, adding to his surprise at Sirius’ reply. “I thought your family belonged to  _ that  _ faction. Forgive me, I’d thought the Blacks were in favour of anti-muggle politics.”

Shaking his head at the redhead, Sirius went to correct him. “They weren’t exactly pro-muggle, to be honest. But they knew a bad idea when they saw one and conservatism of  _ this,”  _ he gestured with his raised hand vaguely, “nature held little promise of progress. We Blacks are an old, even ancient, family. And we do cherish the past and traditions but we value our continued existence even more and holding on to a dying narrative is anything but.”

“The murders then-” the redhead whispered upon realization.

“Were likely to have been motivated by their  _ betrayal _ of pureblood politics, as they would say,” Sirius provided, nodding affirmatively toward Mr Weasley.

“ _ They _ ?” the other man asked in confusion.

“Just people,” Sirius waved lazily, aware that he couldn’t name them. The killings were murders without perpetrators. He had no proof that linked anyone and thus couldn’t give the man sitting opposite him anything more tangible.

“I see,” Mr Weasley replied, seeming unbothered by the vagueness of Sirius' statement.

After a few silent, awkward moments, Sirius cleared his throat to begin the discussion on why he’d come to see Mr Weasley to begin with.

“The letter then,” he reminded the redhead man.

“Ah, yes, the letter. Have you read it?” the other inquired excitedly.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost track of it within my own pile of papers at home,” the dark-haired man said with a tang of embarrassment colouring his face.

Letting his gaze travel around the room, Mr Weasley tried to point out his own messy office, attempting to even the scale between them. “As you can see, I’m not any better in that regard, so I can sympathize,” he said while he let his hand massage his neck. “I hope this isn’t the only reason you’ve had to come all this way. It would make me feel terrible if that were the case. I would have made the journey to your home instead.”

“No worries,” Sirius replied quickly, “there are other matters that require my attention. A case involving a convicted criminal. Nothing major but something that I have to be present for.” Sirius didn’t want to inform anyone what else he’d been called to the Ministry for. 

Madam Bones had been quite clear about the covert nature of their meeting. Something about secret information on a matter pertaining to his relatives. In his opinion, the last attempt by a sentenced criminal to wiggle out of a long stay at Azkaban.

“As one should,” the redhead nodded, drawing Sirius from his deep thoughts.

Sirius agreed with a curt smile but didn’t say anything further on the matter.

“Would you prefer tea or coffee?” Mr Weasley offered, getting up suddenly to approach the water boiler in the corner of the office. 

“Am I staying that long?” Sirius inquired, eyeing the man’s obvious attempt at a muggle tea making ceremony. To call it an odd thing would have been an understatement. Somebody using muggle objects in the Ministry of Magic and using an electrical cord connected to a car battery on the floor, no less. Yes,  _ quite odd. _

Unperturbed by Sirius' question, Mr Weasley made no note of the former’s keen observation in his unusual set-up. “No matter, I feel this is the least I can offer for your troubles.”

“Then a cup of tea, please. Thank you,” Sirius responded gratefully, licking his lips after noticing their dryness.

Mr Weasley nodded away as he continued to fiddle with his set-up, filling the metal can with an  _ aguamenti. _

“So, about the letter?” Sirius reminded him again.

“Yes, the letter,” Mr Weasley confirmed, his attention split between their conversation and the tea.

“Well?” Sirius called again.

“It’s quite mundane really,” the man continued unperturbed.

“Go on, I’m all ears,” he pushed impatiently, not appreciating being led on with platitudes.

Mr Weasley didn’t see Sirius’ displeased demeanour and thus didn’t feel pressured to speak right away. Instead, he stopped speaking altogether to pay more attention to the tea-making. After a few long moments of pouring, turning and mixing, he placed the mugs filled with steaming hot tea on a tablet along with a small cup of milk and a bowl of sugar. He turned and approached the desk slowly before placing the tablet on the desk and offering Sirius his tea.

Sirius nodded gratefully, albeit reluctantly, and helped himself to the ingredients on the tablet. After taking a ginger sip from his mug, he turned his attention back to Mr Weasley who had also just finished preparing his tea. With an expectant look, he urged the man to continue where he’d left off.

“A short while ago,” the man started, “I began a project with my muggle car, a Ford Anglia. A fascinating piece of muggle ingenuity, which I've charmed to be able to fly.”

Hearing this, Sirius couldn’t help but remember his old motorcycle, his face forming a smirk in concert with his feelings. “That’s quite something. I, myself, have a flying motorcycle that had been a joy in my youth. Regretfully, I haven’t really been able to make much use of it as of late.” Despite his disappointment, Sirius could still remember all the happy memories he’d made riding it with his friends squeezed into the side-car. His eyes sparkled at the musings.

“Fascinating,” an awed Mr Weasley responded, his amusement at the thought of a similar project having been attempted by someone else distracting him again from the conversation as well.

“Your car?” Sirius reminded him abruptly after he’d noticed the long silence.

“Sorry, yes. Well, since I’ve taken on this project, my sons have become increasingly interested in muggle machinery and my youngest boy, Ron, has developed a deeper appreciation for muggle motor vehicles,” the older man explained.

“This is what the letter was about actually,” he added pointedly.

“How so?” Sirius didn’t see how Mr Weasley’s newfound passion should matter to him. If anything, he was the wrong man to seek out for advice.

“Well, I had the fortunate opportunity to make young Mr Potter’s acquaintance at an event for enthusiasts of motorsport. Ron and I have pursued this growing passion for muggle cars together and, as time went on, we have had to come to the frustrating realization that our passion would find no other compatriots within the confines of our society. Perhaps aside from yourself, Lord Black, and your godson.”

Sirius couldn’t breathe and almost felt the bottom fall out from under him. While he stubbornly held his outside posture of pure calm, on the inside he was a raging storm.

Mr Weasley, who had noticed none of Sirius’ extreme discomfort, continued his monologue uninterrupted. “It was then that we decided to look beyond the walls of our society to the muggle world, where motor vehicles are a norm and popular pastime. We visited a few muggle car meetings but have had a difficult time connecting with the crowd. Despite all my best efforts to study muggle motor vehicle history, I’ve come to realize that there is much more to the passion than one could learn from books alone. And it shames me to admit this, but I’m out of my depth when it comes to talking ‘shop’ with muggles,” Mr Weasley recalled with a tone of disappointment. His demeanour grew more so at the words that followed. “While I consider myself content with my small little Ford and the joy I derive from fiddling with it, I’m afraid that Ron has become entirely unsatisfied with my ‘lack of initiative’, as he would describe it.” The older man leaned back in his chair and threw his hands up in defeat, a shrug adding to his general expression of helplessness.

“Dare I say, that boy risked quite a lip right there,” Sirius said flatly, unable to find the words to even begin understanding what had happened outside of his purview.

“No worries,” the other man chuckled, “I smacked him good for it. But it does not detract from the truth that he spoke.”

Gradually recognizing a trend and perhaps where this discussion was going, Sirius couldn’t help but make his thoughts known. “So, how is it you met my godson again? Pure chance, you say?”

“Yes,” Mr Weasley nodded apprehensively. “As I mentioned before, I’ve had the opportunity to make his acquaintance during an event. Forgive me for saying this, but the fact that his name was Harry Potter made me consider it a sign from the Fates pulling our strings.” 

Sirius’ apprehension grew as he leaned forward, circling his tea mug with his hands. “What exactly did you discuss with my godson?” he inquired specifically, his eyes studying the redhead intensely. 

Harry hadn’t ever mentioned to him that he’d made new friends or acquaintances at the last car meet he had gone to. And for them to turn out to be wizards no less, what bloody dumb luck.

No, he was wrong again. Harry had made  _ three _ magical acquaintances without his knowing about it until now. 

Noticing the dread that spread on Sirius' face, the older man quickly went to rectify the implications his words carried. “Nothing I wouldn’t say to a muggle. I hadn’t realized he was a Potter until he’d introduced himself. After the fact, I’ve strictly adhered to the statute of secrecy and done nothing else but offer some form of sponsorship for a chance to let Ron drive a car. Forgive me if that was too presumptuous. I felt that Mr Potter’s heritage provided my son and I with an inkling of kinship with the boy.”

“Well, if kinship was a problem, I can tell you that there are plenty magicals outside of the British Isles who would be happy to offer guidance on the matter. I don’t find it appropriate to approach my godson so selfishly,” Sirius replied swiftly, a touch hotter than intended.

Mr Weasley swallowed at Sirius' criticism but didn’t let it stop him from continuing. “I’m well aware of the other magical society’s indulgences in the muggle world. The problem isn’t availability but rather means. Don’t misunderstand what I mean to say, Lord Black. I am proud and happy with what little means I can muster but I’d much rather be able to do it within the confines of my own country than have to sneak off abroad to do what I  _ should _ be able to do here,” the redhead explained pointedly.

“But risking exposing my godson to magic is considered a cost worth bearing?” Sirius accused almost shouting.

Arthur visibly bristled at the accusation. “Lord Black, I may be stowed away in the furthest part of the ministry, but even I know that you’ve made no efforts to include your godson in the magical society.”

Sirius eyed him sharply at the outburst.

Letting his face slacken again, the redhead made to add something further. “But that wasn’t why I knew I was sure to keep  _ being _ muggle.”

“What else is there?” Sirius prodded impatiently.

“There was a girl with him,” the man began vaguely,” whom Ron recognized from Hogwarts. ”

“Ms Granger, yes, I’ve recently had the privilege of meeting her as well,” Sirius interrupted again, his frustration over the premature excitement at the recent magical incident pouring into his voice.

After eight long years, the rune that he’d carved into the walls of the garage had finally sent a signal, marking Harry’s first accidental cast of magic. In his hurry to get home and finally spill the beans, he’d come across a wryly smiling Celine who was forced to bring the happiness he’d built crashing down like a glass castle.

Celine had been in the manor at the time and noticed right away that the girl, who they had never seen before, was magical. The girl had noticed Celine’s nature right away as well and in the brief absence of Harry, who’d gone up to his room to get changed, the two had exchanged clear words on what the status quo was in the household.

Hermione had seemed surprised but perfectly understanding of the situation, despite having expressed her disapproval of their actions thus far. On the other hand, she had also seemed happy to be privy to the information and become a more integral part of Harry’s life. 

The scheming and integration of another magical element in Harry’s life gave Sirius a headache. The growing number of magicals in Harry’s life was an indication of what was perhaps still to come, the chances of Harry witnessing magic seemed to increase with each passing day.

Despite the small bit of joy he felt at possibly ending the charade that was the boy’s life, Sirius couldn’t help but remember the promise he’d made the boy’s late parents.

Until Harry somehow learned of magic, Sirius had to maintain the act. His duty as a godparent demanded it. 

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Nodding at Sirius, Mr Weasley didn’t let the change in the former’s voice affect his explanation. “Well, she had informed Ron that Harry was wholly unaware of magic and that it was to be kept that way. So we did our best at being  _ muggle _ .”

Sirius' eyes became little more than slits at that, carefully regarding the eldest Weasley. After a few moments of silence, Sirius sighed and let the tension in his eyes relax.  _ Of all the things that could have happened, it had to be like this. That bloody car again. _

Resigning himself to the fate that his godson had placed in his lap, Sirius let his shoulders sag in response to his body’s overall loss of energy. The long-held tenseness of his back muscles hurt at the relaxation. “I appreciate the honesty, Mr Weasley, but I’m not sure I can permit you or your son’s involvement in my godson’s immediate environment-”

“Please-” the man almost begged, his hands’ palms raised in a plea.

“Unless...” Sirius continued calmly, a hand raised to stop him. The cat was out of the bag and he knew it. There was little he could do to make things go back the way they were. So he might as well adapt to the new situation.

“Yes?” Hope arose from the man.

“Unless we establish ground rules on what you and your son need to be aware of when it comes to Harry’s life,” Sirius finally uttered.

“I completely understand, Lord Black. We’ll respect your decision, whatever it may be. If only to let Ron partake in his passion with Mr Potter,” Mr Weasley agreed hurriedly, nodding at Sirius’ words with vehemence.

Sirius appreciated the man’s sheer willingness to comply with his wishes regarding Harry but soon realized that he may not be able to further elaborate on what he’d just declared. Checking the time with a quick  _ tempus,  _ Sirius averted his gaze from the man sitting on the opposite side of the messy desk.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Time is working against me today. I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the discussion until further notice,” Sirius muttered, raising his gaze back to the man across from him.

“Oh, my apologies for distracting you this long, Lord Black.”

Considering the man, Sirius nodded to himself. “If this is to become a thing between your son and my charge then I must ask you to call me Mr Black or simply, Sirius. I can’t have you call me by my title in my godson’s presence.”

Mr Weasley beamed at the words and nodded energetically. “Of course, I understand Lor- I mean Mr Black. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sirius nodded appreciatively and began gathering his things. “I truly appreciate your candour in this matter and will send you an owl with the details of our next meeting soon. I hope you do, however, handle my letter better than I did yours,” Sirius said guiltily. 

Noticing the still untouched tea mug sitting on the desk in front of him, he tested its temperature and with a brief cooling charm, he lowered it to an acceptable lukewarm temperature that enabled him to quickly quaff it.

“Thank you for the tea, it was delicious. Excuse my abhorrent manners, if you would,” Sirius said, his hand raised in apology at the faux-pas.

“You’re most welcome and don’t let it bother you. Anytime, feel free to knock and I’ll gladly offer you some more to make up for it, if you wish,” Mr Weasley offered politely.

“Well, until we next meet,” Sirius said.

The Weasley patriarch nodded at that and opened the door for Sirius to exit.

Walking out the door, it closed behind him with a harsh thud. And just like that, the most unexpected encounter had come to a close, allowing Sirius to take a long-needed breath to calm his nerves.

Unable to spend another moment to digest what had just happened, he cleared his mind for what laid in store for him. A meeting with Amelia Bones that had piqued his attention a few days ago through a secret message by Patronus. Her words had been as cryptic as the Bones family’s own history.

Madam Bones had contacted him a few days ago about the convicted criminal that had been resentenced by Sirius to a prolonged stay in Azkaban for decades to come. 

Which deaths the man meant were unclear, but the veteran ears of Director Bones felt the words of the convicted man seemed truthful enough to postpone his transport to the cruel prison for a few more days. 

###

Making his way back to the atrium, Sirius arrived there with little more than a huff, his body still in perfect health, allowing him to traverse the seemingly infinite stairs of the structure with relatively little effort.

“Lord Black, what a surprise,” a silky voice called.

Sirius turned toward the voice, his mind already groaning. If there was one person he’d truly wished not to encounter here, it was the man who had called to him.

“What do you want Malfoy?” Sirius rasped roughly.

“My, what crude language.”

“I don’t have the time to be dealing with the likes of you,” Sirius returned hotly.

Seemingly unbothered by Sirius’ lack of decorum, Lucius Malfoy continued his act of innocence. “And, pray tell, what ‘likes’ are you referring to?” 

“Your kind, Lucius,” Sirius emphasized. With the honorifics dropped, the two men reverted to their childhood relationship. They hadn’t gotten along during their days at Hogwarts and the relationship improved since then. It had only worsened since the deaths of his close relatives. 

What little respect Lucius Malfoy had managed to fake whenever the two had met before evaporated after his family’s murders had been made public.

“You’re the same as always, I see. Ever the rogue,” Lucius commented, his fake smile morphing into a look of bland disappointment. 

“At least I’m consistent.” Sirius grinned, the smile not reaching his eyes.

“Consistently a bore, yes,” Lucius confirmed, looking around them to see whether their exchange was being observed.

“To you, always,” Sirius spoke directly, his gaze unmoving.

“You flatter me, Black.” 

“I’d do much worse than flatter you.” His voice took on a hint of lethality.

“Careful now, Lord Black,” Lucius voiced with fake politeness, noticing they weren’t alone anymore. “People are watching. We wouldn’t want you in trouble, now, would we?” 

“No, of course, we wouldn’t want that,” Sirius responded with a fake polite tone of his own. It wouldn’t do to give Malfoy an ounce of publicity by giving him any munition through a public fight. A scuffle between two noble families was always settled behind closed doors, never in public.

Noticing that people were still watching, Malfoy went to poke Sirius and see whether he would react. 

“May I ask how that boy is doing these days? I hear so very little about him from Draco,” he inquired with an exaggerated tone of worry, only to smirk arrogantly at his next words. “What am I saying? I don’t hear anything at all. He is not attending Hogwarts, you see. The poor boy is all alone with no friends and family to call his own. No magic.”

“You better watch that tongue of yours, Malfoy, or you might just lose it,” Sirius bristled, his blood hot at the insult toward Harry.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You can take a man out of Gryffindor, but you can’t take the Gryffindor out of a man. As I said, ever the roguish fool, Lord Black. Such manners from a man of your standing? What would your poor, dear old father say? He’d turn in his grave if he heard you speak this way.” 

“Thin ice, Lucius,” he warned again, his hand disappearing in his pocket.

“I don’t care, Black. Your family is done. What little influence you’ve held is either dead or moved to kiss the feet of families standing above you now,” Lucius responded while he stepped closer, his eyes tracking the man’s hand.

“I am  _ still _ here,” he reminded him.

“Yes, you’re  _ still  _ here, “Lucius repeated, “but many others are not.”

“Is that a threat, Malfoy?”

“Please, I have no need to  _ threaten _ the likes of you. Consider it friendly advice. Who knows, if you heed it you might just rebuild your family. Perhaps you might even marry that wretch of a housemaid you keep around.” Lucius took a few steps back again, satisfied with the damage he’d done to the man standing opposite from him. 

Sirius’ hand twitched slightly at the comment toward Celine.

“Don’t rock the boat and all will be well for you and the house of Black. You have my word,” Lucius quickly added, his body relaxing and voice returning to its previous silky smooth tone, indicating an approaching dismissal.

Sirius, however, didn’t react to Lucius' second warning.

“Well, it was a pleasure talking to you, Lord Black. Until we meet again,” Lucius bowed before stepping away and walking toward one of the fireplaces to disappear in emerald flames. Sirius followed his silhouette with a predatory stare, catching each discrete movement, silently hoping for a reason to hex him.

“You alright there, Sirius?” A new voice asked from next to him.

Sirius blinked before turning his gaze to the person standing next to him, a face of concern plastered on their face.

“Kingsley?” He spoke, surprised.

“Yeah, you alright? Did he say something that worries you? At least, more than usual?” The dark-skinned man inquired gently.

“Hm? No, not particularly. It was just the usual poison. I haven’t spoken to him in a while so I may be losing my touch. He got me good this time,” Sirius admitted gingerly, unclenching his hand from around the wand in his pocket.

“Make any threats? You know we can question him, hold him for a certain duration,” Kinsley offered with a smug grin.

Sirius waved him off with a tight grin on his face, the thought of Lucius in chains making him want to laugh. “You’d only lose your job and make Amelia’s day go to shite.”

“There’s that,” Kingsley shrugged nonchalantly, “but if it were up to me, I’d watch that dodgy character.”

“You and me both, mate, you and me both,“ Sirius agreed, his disappointment at the impossibility to put chains on a Malfoy showing in his hopeless shrug. “If you were up for the job, I’d give you my vote for Minister, right this moment.” 

Sirius knew that Kingsley would make a brilliant minister in times of strife but when it came to the intricacies of the court and its intrigues, the man was ill-equipped.

“Nah, too much scheming for my tastes. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.” The man smiled, confirming Sirius’ thoughts.

“Always mate.” Sirius patted him on the back. 

“So, you here for the thing?” Kingsley inquired vaguely.

“If you mean with the thing that... _ thing _ ? Then yes. I was about to make my way up to Amelia’s before Malfoy cut me off.”

“Well, she's in a bit of a foul mood. Something about evidence disappearing and dodgy business within our own ranks again. I tell you, something’s afoot,” Kingsley warned.

Sirius couldn’t help but frown at the news coming from the Auror. His ears perked up at the possible mention of evidence tampering. “What evidence?”

Throwing his hands, Kingsley let a frustrated sigh escape him. “Some pureblood brats wreaked havoc in a muggle store and got caught by magical witnesses.” 

Sirius nodded at that and found it to be exactly why the law for underage magic had originally been there to prevent such events. When the law had been amended during Sirius’ Hogwarts years young wizards began to abuse their privilege and cast magic in the presence of muggles. The argument at the time had been that it would allow them to improve their skills faster. 

The initiative had been put forward by the pureblood body of the Wizengamot. Dumbledore had insisted the law remain in place as it was, citing the dangers of allowing untrained wizards cast magic freely. His points had been valid, as the elder wizard had come from a time where underage magic had done much harm.

But decades had passed since the fall of Gellert Grindelwald and society had learned to forget the dangers that magic in the hands of immature magicals could pose. Subsequently, the law was amended to allow underage magic, albeit traced and recorded.

“Sounds cut and dry to me,” Sirius stated.

“Yeah, well, the witness testimony has up and disappeared and the witnesses have gone and shut up. Saying they’d reconsidered. Seen nothing.” Kingsley shook his head, his hands thrown up in frustration.

“Well, that doesn’t sound very  _ truthful _ ,” Sirius confirmed. “Why not threaten to press charges for obstructing justice?”

“The Minister,” Kingsley pronounced with as much love he could muster, “has revoked the right to  _ encourage  _ witnesses to come forward.” The flat line on his face indicated how much he loathed the Minister’s interference in law enforcement. 

“Did he now?” Sirius asked, his voice underlined by faked wonder. “What did Moody say about that?”

“He’s been  _ retired _ , remember?” Kingsley reminded him pointedly.

Pursing his lips, Sirius nodded upon realizing that the old grizzly Auror had been offered to retire early, given his lack of incentive to follow  _ new _ protocols. Madam Bones had struggled to find an auror even remotely capable of filling those large shoes.

“Yeah, odd timing if you ask me. Dodgy business,” Kingsley repeated, pulling Sirius from his thoughts.

“I can see that.”

Nodding to himself, Kingsley remembered that Sirius had places to be. “Well, best let you go. Madam Bones isn’t going to be any happier if you arrive late,” he said, offering his hand to urge Sirius toward the elevators. 

“I am late, mate,” Sirius tried to relativize quickly, knowing full well that he’d gone well beyond what was deemed acceptably late.

“Well, don’t be later then,” the taller man admonished.

Sirius smiled at the man and walked toward the elevators alongside him. Once the doors opened, Kingsley pushed him forward gently.

“Be well Sirius,” Kingsley waved as Sirius stepped into the elevator and announced his intended destination to the operator.

“You too, Kingsley,” he called through the closing doors.

He smiled satisfied, turned and moved toward the same direction where Malfoy had disappeared to, a flash of green signalling the man’s departure from the Ministry.

Sirius contemplated what Kingsley told him earlier, the thoughts troubling him to no end. It reminded him of the disappearance of evidence from his family’s murders, the modus operandi seemed similar enough.

###

Arriving at the DMLE’s office space, he knocked before being called in by a female voice. Stepping inside, he noticed the stark contrast between the DMLE’s and Arthur Weasley’s office.

While the latter had to make do with probably very little budget, the DMLE possessed a substantial budget. The office had an open view of greater London, with the daylight illuminating the space beautifully. The picturesque environment perfectly masked the danger that sat behind the heavy looking door to his left. Anyone intending to cross one Amelia Bones would choose to live dangerously. Sirius suspected that it was for the same reason that Minister Fudge had chosen to permit the generous financing of the DMLE - to be on the  _ safe _ side. 

The furniture was made of mahogany and covered in the finest of leather while the rest of the objects in the office only added to the overall sense of  _ excellence _ . The secretary that had just called him in wore modern office clothing, a sharp suit that hugged her body in all the right places, topped off with a professional hairstyle that exhibited a sense of perfection that almost seemed unnatural. He assumed it was amplified with some form of cosmetic spell meant to prevent her hair or make up from becoming mussed. 

Having noticed his staring, the woman turned her gaze toward him so sharply it felt as if he’d been whipped. Quickly averting his gaze away from her, he cleared his throat to announce his intentions.

“Good day, Lord Black here to see Madam Bones,” he explained curtly.

She checked the small daily planner for her notes and shook her head in disapproval.

“Milord, you are past the point of fashionably late,” she stated, her voice not betraying a sense of humour.

“I know,” Sirius nodded, aware of his delay, “please do forgive my late arrival. Is Madam Bones still free to see me?”

Eyeing Sirius with visible judgement, she returned her gaze to her planer and then nodded.

“You are in luck, today. She has another fifteen minutes before she is expected elsewhere. I’d make it count, if I were you, milord,” she said pointedly, underlining his little choices.

He nodded at her. “I will try to keep it brief.”

“I recommend you do.” She eyed him seriously.

Leaving her desk, she moved toward the door leading to the Director’s office. Knocking quickly, she entered and closed the door behind herself. Shortly after, she emerged, leaving the door open behind her and stepping aside for him to enter.

“Director Bones will see you now,” she announced politely, a stark contrast to the previous encounter. Perhaps she didn’t want to seem harsh when her superior was in hearing range.

Sirius nodded and walked past her to enter the office of the Director of the DMLE. Once inside, he heard the door close behind with a satisfying thud. It was a sound he’d compare to a prison gate locking shut behind him.

Facing forward, he found the woman bent over her desk, deep in study. He moved slowly toward her, careful not to make any sudden noises.

“You’re late,” she started suddenly without turning to look at him. The grit over his late arrival was noticeable in the undertone of her voice. Madam Bones was used to rigorous discipline and punctuality and was an all-around stickler for the rules. There were places she still intended to go and perfection made promotions easier.

“That I am,” Sirius confirmed evenly, not letting her intimidate him as she did with her subordinates. Not being beholden to her allowed him to carve out enough confidence to check her, but given they’d spent time together at Hogwarts would never allow him to seem more serious than he really was.  _ Serious Sirius… _ , he couldn’t help but force down a chuckle at the age-old joke.

Unaware of his internal struggle not to laugh, Madam Bones turned around to begin their meeting. “There is no time to lose. I’ve got fifteen minutes to tell you this and I want to know what you think.”

Straightening his face, he lowered himself on one of the chairs in front of her desk and focused his attention on her. “I’m all ears, Amelia. Hit me.”

###

**Same day but overseas...**

Château De la Cour, Outskirts of Toulouse, South France

She sat in the living room of their home, a fashion magazine on her lap as she carefully rubbed the corner of the page between her thumb and index finger. The couch she sat on was made of red leather that felt warm to the touch - courtesy of one of her mother’s charms. 

The walls were lined with pictures of Fleur and her younger sister’s upbringing, a countless collection of images of silvery-blonde haired children posing in front of a camera, trying to capture their ever-changing background. 

Feelings of nostalgia graced her father’s face every time he gave them a glance. She could only imagine what would cross his mind when she spied his tired eyes reflected on the framed picture’s protective glass.

Thinking about it, a barely audible sigh left escaped her lips, her chest dropping at the long exhale. Looking at the subjects in the moving images, she recognized the many landscapes behind her younger self. The vast deserts of the Sahara, the tundra of Siberia, the gravel roads of the Pyrenees and the tight roads of Italy. Many of these photos espoused memories of more innocent times, where she didn’t have a care in the world and only spent her days immersing herself in wishes and dreams of a glorious future. Days when it all seemed too simple, so  _ facile _ .

She smiled at the happy moments between her father and herself walking around race camps, meeting various people and looking at colourful and imposing machines. To most muggles, a car was a means of transport from point A to point B. For wizarding kind, it was a redundant piece of travel equipment, something unneeded when apparition or the floo network was readily available and more convenient. Truly, her society thought the idea of racing as an ‘obsolete’ means of travel and was usually seen with nothing less than total derision. But in her paternal family, racing had been a welcome pastime for generations. To her, it provided a buffer between muggles and magicals. A gap to keep the world at bay while she immersed herself in passion. A means to unleash her ever-present sense of restraint.

When she was racing she didn’t have to think about the careless words of people being spoken behind her back. The bubble she’d built for herself within the confines of a four-hundred horsepower car, flying across landmasses at speeds exceeding one-hundred-fifty kilometres per hour.

The sensation, while relatively brief, allowed her to breathe, feel and sense with the purest form of her hidden nature. She could hear, smell and see farther, faster and better than muggles. Perhaps, that was cheating but that didn’t matter. It made her happy. And seeing her happy, seemed to make her father happy as well.

In a few days’ time, Fleur would leave for her final year at Beauxbatons, the illustrious educational institution renowned through the western part of the European continent. She would have to leave behind the things she loved doing and focus on things that she had to do.

To be clear, Fleur didn’t abhor magic or the people involved in the magical world. If she was honest with herself, she knew she’d never be able to appreciate her own magical nature. What it meant was that while Fleur was a magical and a descendant from a magical race of legend aeons ago, she didn’t feel at home in the magical world.

Drawing her eyes away from the images on the wall, she heard familiar steps approaching her from behind. Her mother’s feet rolled from ball to toes, masking her steps almost entirely. Mature Veela, as natural-born avian predators, knew how to hide their presence entirely. The fact that Fleur could even hear her meant that she wished to talk.

Dog-marking a corner of the opened page in her magazine, Fleur folded it shut and dropped it on the small table in front of her before raising her gaze to her mother, who moved to sit on the armchair opposite of her.

“Yes?” Fleur began, her eyes observing the older Veela.

“Just wanted to sit with you. Spend some time together before you’ll have to leave,” her mother shrugged, her demeanour perfectly innocent.

Fleur didn’t drop her gaze, instead eyeing her mother more intensely.

“I see you were looking at dresses. Find anything?” Apolline asked curiously, her head tilted to the side.

Fleur sighed while she fiddled with hair, drawing it to one side of her head, the end cascading over her shoulder onto her chest.

“It is stupid,” she muttered.

“What is?” Her mother inquired worriedly.

“The idea of a ball. I find it outdated.”

“Why? I think it’s a fabulous idea. Your father and I used to enjoy the odd dance together during social events. It makes for wonderful memories,” she remiscind, moving to lean on the arm of the chair, a palm opening to support her chin. 

“For you, maybe. You always had Papa who’d never make a fool of you. I, on the other hand, have to suffer through the dregs of society who think they will be the one to snatch me up. To parade me in front of their entire families and friends. To brag how they bagged a Veela,” Fleur said dejectedly.

Apolline eyed her eldest daughter.

“But what if you meet somebody who’ll make it worth your suffering? Wouldn’t you want to ask them to dance with you for the duration of the ball.”

“The Triwizard tournament is a competition of magical prowess, where the most capable witch or wizard wins a trophy. I don’t see how my having to put on a dress and smile at random people would enable me to win.”

“Where is the girl who used to dance all over the house?” Her mother asked cheekily. “You used to be so adorable in your little dresses, asking your dear Papa to suffer through your missteps. He still bears scars from your small heels.”

Fleur looked away in embarrassment, her hands fiddling with the other. 

“She grew older and wiser, learned to dance and not to ask her father to suffer through it,” she stated.

“So, why not be open-minded? You already know how to dance. That’s one worry less for you and gives you more space to consider making genuine bonds,” her mother pushed.

“Maman, I’ve tried. They’ve called me names, spoke lies about me and wished the worst things upon me. How would a dance at some frivolous ball make a difference?”

Her mother looked at her, giving Fleur a knowing smile.

“I know how you feel and I understand how painful it must be,  _ ma chérie _ . People do terrible things to those they fear and don’t understand. But you can’t let them push you down and allow your life pass you by. All of us have had to stand up in face of such hardship. If we didn’t, we’d never have you little chicklets to smother with love.”

Fleur looked away at her next question, raising her knee to her chin.

“And what if I simply remain by myself, if I don’t find or seek out a partner and...don’t have children?”

Apolline raised an eyebrow at that. “Thinking a bit far ahead, aren’t we?”

“I mean it. What if I choose to stay ‘Fleur Delacour’? Not the mother, wife or partner of someone,” Fleur asked again, trying to clarify her feelings to her mother.

“Then it would be a pity,” Apolline began sadly, letting the words drag her shoulders down. Forcing a smile to her lips, she eyed her daughter tenderly before letting her voice lighten at her response. “It would be your choice but that’s rather a bit abstract, don’t you think? Thinking so far ahead based on what you feel now?”

Fleur didn’t react to that, rubbing her shinbone in silence. She was approaching the end of her school years at Beauxbatons and was expected to find her own way soon enough. As a witch, the skills she required to enter most of the entree-stage careers were on point. Whether it was as an enchantress, a curse-breaker, a medi-witch or anything similarly difficult, she could apply for those internships and get accepted with relatively little effort.

On the other hand, she had a promising start into her rally racing career and recently secured another big sponsor who’d follow her onto any team she wished to join. After her father’s contract with Peugeot had been terminated following the end of Group B, he had created a private team financed by him in partnership with smaller sponsors. It wasn’t as glamorous as the days of being a Peugeot works team were, but her father still had friends at the car manufacturer who’d send him parts for her less powerful 205 GTI.

The possibility of spending time abroad this year helped calm her nerves but didn’t prevent her from worrying about her need for a final decision. Could she do both things? Being a witch and be a successful racing driver or would she have to settle on being one of the two. 

A racing career was a full-time job, not some hobby she could do over the weekend, and similarly, any internship as a witch would require her whole attention, lest the employer feel unappreciated.

And finally, her responsibilities as a Veela dictated she consider her kinds’ future in her own life plan as well.

The weight of responsibilities and of her own choices threatened to crush her under the mass of the possible consequences. At the increased sense of anxiety, she forced her eyes shut and focussed on something else.

Watching her daughter go through her mental exercises, Apolline sympathized with her daughter, but only to a certain degree. Seeing as she couldn’t do much other than offer advice, she decided to give her another tidbit. 

“Let me say it this way,” she began after clearing her throat. Waiting until Fleur opened her eyes and looked over to her, Apolline continued her attempt at comforting her daughter. “Don’t think too hard about what could or should be. Think about the here and now and what comes tomorrow. Give the trip to Scotland a chance to be a clean slate and see the world in a new light. I’m sure that there will be plenty of people worth getting to know. And maybe, you’ll meet someone who’d make you enjoy a dance or two.”

Looking at her mother’s kind gaze from the corner of the eye, Fleur didn’t turn her head, leaving it resting on top of her knee.

Noticing her daughter would remain silent on the issue, Apolline decided to change the subject back to where it started.

“How about we go dress shopping with Gabby tomorrow? We can make it a girls outing, just the three of us,” she proposed hopefully, clapping her hands together to clear the heavy air.

“ _ Maman _ …,” Fleur sighed with a groan.

“Forget the dress,” Apolline corrected quickly. “Let’s just enjoy a day out and about. If we happen to find a dress,  _ voila _ , if not, then we won’t. At least we’ll have some fun going out to town.”

“ _ D’accord,” _ Fleur agreed, a small smile emerging at the thought of her little sister joining them. The little girl seemed to care little for the world’s troubles and those of her family and would indiscriminately spread her happy-go-lucky personality whenever and wherever she could. Considering her feelings and troubling thoughts about her future, the infectious laughter of her chicklet sister were only too welcome.

If she was honest, there was no way they wouldn’t find a dress for Fleur if Gabby had anything to say about it. If her little sister found a dress, Fleur would have to get one as well - solidarity between sisters and all that jazz.

Apolline nodded happily at her positive response before lifting herself off the armchair. Carefully moving her arm, Apolline winced at the uncomfortable feeling.

At her daughter’s worried look, Apolline shook her head. “Fell asleep,” she mouthed as she gingerly lowered her arm to her side, walked back to the kitchen and then up the stairs to the sleeping quarters with a lighter step to her stride.

Pulling her gaze away from her mother’s disappearing form, Fleur drew her eyes to the living room again.

She would miss her mother’s calming presence once she was away at school again. She hadn’t noticed until now how much their relationship had changed in the last few years.

While before, Apolline would reprimand her for every childish and hot-tempered action, she had recently turned to small guiding words here and there. No longer was she the fussing hen that would helicopter over her and Gabby at every opportunity. Those days seemed so distant now.

Now she would only receive suggestions and propositions. No more direct instructions on what a Veela was supposed to act like. Perhaps, it was because Fleur shared more in common with her father than with her mother.

Gabby was ever the cute little princess, hungry for their mother’s praises, dancing to the elder Veela’s every tune. A mirror image of what Apolline had hoped Fleur would grow up to be. A prima ballerina, a sublime queen within the Veela ranks, a shining star among her kind.

Fleur preferred the smell of oil and grease to the perfume decorating her mother’s  _ salle de bain,  _ preferred the heat of a race than the cool of the dance floor. She  _ cherished _ the victory on a podium over a crown at a beauty pageant.

Jumping at the noise of the door opening and closing, Fleur waited for the person to announce themself. 

“Apolline,  _ chérie, _ Fleur? I brought the groceries. Come and help me store them so we can start preparing dinner,” Jean called.

Dropping her leg from the couch, Fleur quickly got up and jogged to the kitchen where her father began putting away the groceries.

Stepping up to him, she gave him a small kiss on the cheek, to which he turned in confusion. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head, a wide smile gracing her face. “No, I just felt like it.” 

Raising an eyebrow, he shook his head at her before turning back to the shopping in the bags. 

While he was busy, she began bringing out the cooking utensils, smiling to herself.

Whether she was a Veela princess or a grease monkey, whether she would make friends in Scotland or not, and whether she returned from overseas a winner or not, she knew that this place would still be here. The place she called home. The home where her mother, father, and Gabby would be waiting to add another valuable memory to their already colourful wall.

**End of Chapter**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N#2: As usual, if you enjoyed this fic and would like to talk about it past the capabilities of a comment, come find me on my discord server. discord . gg / uE6Xkj2V (Remove Spaces)
> 
> Also, if you are interested in the HP/FD pairing and would like to talk to your favourite author or your fellow fan, then come find us at the Flowerpot discord server. discord . gg / k8ZxUjE (Remove Spaces)


	5. Love & Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Heya, hope everyone is safe and well. Thanks again for the subs, kudos and comments. Please feel free to keep that up, it motivates me to keep writing in these trying times. Also, if you like to talk to me about the story, come find me on my discord.
> 
> Beta: For this chapter I had a group of Flowerpot betas proofread my work. Please join me in thanking Misty, King Raph and Noble K for their hard work. *Thunderous Applause*
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the HP universe or the mentioned brand names in this story, they belong to the appropriate entities that brought them into this world.

**Chapter 4:** Love & Friendship

**August 30th, 1994**

Black Manor, London, England  


Harry sat in the kitchen, a car magazine spread out on the table before him as he munched on his well deserved chicken-cheese sandwich. Next to him sat the quiet form of Celine, a steaming cup of tea placed next to her newspaper as she read it tentatively. He could hear her mutter almost silent thoughts, their meaning lost to the absence of context.

While Celine was somebody who liked to talk, she also seemed to be able to immediately tell when he was in no mood for it, and considering how busy the house had been during the past week, the silence that hung between them was a godsend. 

The quiet of the bookstore was also one of the primary reasons he felt comfortable working there, despite the customers frequenting the shop.

One of the reasons the house had been livelier than usual, was the surprise visit of Mr Weasley a few days ago. Harry couldn’t remember telling his godfather about meeting the redhead man, much less informed his relative of Mr Weasley’s willingness to sponsor him in time for the upcoming event. 

Upon asking Mr Weasley how he’d known where Harry lived and how he’d come to be acquainted with Sirius, the man had seemed mute for lack of an answer before his godfather had intervened and referred to Mr Weasley as an old acquaintance. 

Further questions that arose from the suspiciously unspecific explanation were dashed when Sirius had moved the other man along and disappeared inside Sirius’ study. A place where Harry had never been permitted to enter.

Taking another solid bite from his sandwich, Harry chewed away at his irritation and focussed his attention back on the magazine on the table. The time of the race was fast approaching, as was his return to homeschooling. His private tutors weren't due to start their lessons until the middle of September. He still had time to mess about with his project. 

Groaning internally at the thought of suffering through endless lessons in preparation for his O-Levels, he wondered how other kids felt about their studies. 

Hermione was no mystery but she also was no average example of your average high schooler. She loved studying to the point of being an obsession. She definitely was going to be going places in the future. 

He, on the other hand, was just fine passing his subjects and focussing his attention on his hobby. Sirius and Celine disagreed with his lacklustre approach to his studies but they also placed their hopes of encouraging him to aim higher on his private tutors. So far, Mr Burton and Ms Clearwater had kept him on his toes, making sure he scored high enough for most future universities to take an interest in him.

Thinking back on Hermione’s approaching trip to her elite school, Harry couldn’t help but feel abandoned. He wasn’t particularly keen on surrounding himself with people, but Hermione had made an impression that left him wanting for her presence. It made him consider the exclusive benefits of attending a school: making friends.

While he’d offered his godfather to stop taking  _ expensive _ private lessons and attend a normal public school, Sirius had waved the idea off, citing the lacking qualities of mass education.

To be fair, Harry couldn’t remember ever having attended a nursery or pre-school while he still had lived with his parents. His mother, Lily, had taken to teaching him and for what it was worth, it had always been a rather fun experience with her.

“What are you thinking about?” Celine asked curiously, her grey eyes studying his face.

Caught off guard by her sudden inquiry, Harry had a hard time deciding whether he should speak through a half-chewed bite or not. He went for finishing the bite before answering. “What do you mean?”

Shaking her head at him, Celine gave a small shrug and nodded at him. “You just had a look about you. You looked...happy,” she explained nonchalantly. 

Realizing that he must have smiled at the thought of his parents, Harry returned to look at his magazine in embarrassment, trying to avoid having to explain what the smile could have been about

The older woman took that as a sign that she’d struck gold and left her newspaper to throw her full attention at him. Folding the newspaper closed, she placed her elbow on the table and laid her chin on her palm, her demeanour entirely inquisitive.

“Is it perhaps about Hermione?”

He jerked at the question and eyed her with confusion, his mouth opening and closing in wonder. Shaking himself, he cleared his throat and went to answer.

“What?”

She hummed in amusement, shaking her head at him. “You heard me.”

_ Of course.  _ “What about her?”

“Well,” she started, seemingly unsure of what to say. 

Celine had been very excited to meet Hermione on that day. To be honest, Harry had never seen the woman look as joyous as she had then, gushing over his friend’s surprise visit. On the other hand, he also remembered that Hermione had looked at him differently. It felt familiar and not in a good way. 

“When a girl comes to visit, it usually means they’re close. Perhaps very close,” Celine explained cheekily.

“What are you insinuating? She’s my friend and wanted to see where I lived.” 

Harry's face was red with embarrassment at the misinterpretation of what Hermione’s visit meant to the woman sitting next to him. He’d never even thought of his bushy-haired friend in that way. At least, not until now he hadn’t.

“Celine,” he rubbed his forehead in annoyance, “I sometimes believe you’ve watched too many of those teen dramas on the telly.”

Shrugging at him, she returned her focus on the newspaper, opening it at the page where she’d left a dog ear and began reading. 

“Did you notice how she dressed?” She asked him, her eyes not leaving the open page in front of her.

He frowned at the question. “Yeah, of course, I did.”

“And, did you notice how she took care of her skin and hair?” She prodded further.

Again, his frown deepened.

“Yes, that too. I even told her how nice she looked.”

Celine smiled at that and let her purple eyes move to the side to meet his emerald green eyes

“And then,” she said with a disappointed gasp, raising an eyebrow in disappointment, “you let her come into the house with that ghastly greasy thing in her hands, staining that beautiful skin.”

Harry dropped his eyes back toward his magazine, trying to look at anything but her. “That happened too, yes.”

“And yet, did you hear her complain?” She pointed out further.

“No, but she was only being polite. What are you getting at this time?” He muttered, his hand massaging his eyes or simply raised to help him hide from the woman’s knowing gaze.

Clearing her throat, she leaned back on her chair and graced him with a smile, her teeth barely visible in the subtle split of her lips.

“That girl  _ likes _ you, is what I’m saying,” she stated like it was a matter of fact. The scoff that died in her chest, made itself known in her disbelieving eyes.

“Nonsense,” he replied clearly, no longer in the mood for Celine’s mind games. “Hermione is many things but she doesn’t see me like that. We’ve only ever been friends. I’ve never heard her say or do anything that would indicate the opposite.”

Her face screwed up in confusion while her eyes widened in disagreement, his words seeming to have had the wrong effect.

Leaning back toward him, Celine raised her palm in protest. “Why would you be so adamant about her not liking you, Harry?”

“Because she doesn’t,” he replied curtly, his feelings on the matter resolute.

After a few brief moments of silence, Celine decided that he’d not see the issue from another perspective and made to change the topic. 

“So, if Hermione wasn’t the reason why you smiled, what was it you were thinking about then?”

The question hung in the air for a while as he thought about his answer. Gladdened by the change in topic, he wasn’t sure it changed anything about his forthcoming with a response. He normally didn’t talk about his parents with anyone other than Sirius and even then, it was mostly Sirius who’d bring up past memories of them.

Between Celine and himself, the topic of his parents never really arose. It wasn’t nor had it ever been a thing. He wasn’t sure if it was because he never mentioned them or if she preferred not bring them up. Perhaps it was time to rectify that.

“I was thinking of Mum,” he uttered quietly while he crossed his arms in front of him. 

Rubbing his arms defensively, Celine noticed how uncomfortable the answer made him. She reached out to him and gently stroked his lower arm that was closest to her. He smiled vaguely in return.

“Was it a nice memory, then?” She asked gingerly.

He nodded subtly at her question. “It was one of the few ones I still remember of her.”

Celine eyed him guiltily. “I’m sorry for pushing you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He shook his head at her slowly, “It’s fine.”

Gladdened by that, Celine eyed the magazine that laid in front of him. The picture of a modified car raising an idea in her mind.

“Did that remind you of her?” she asked, her finger pointing toward the picture on the open page.

“No,” he answered quickly, “it was school actually.”

“School?” She wondered.

His jaw tensed but he made to answer anyway, his shoulders rose and fell with a subtle shrug. “I was just thinking that school would be starting again and not being able to see Hermione reminded me of how much going to a school with other kids would be nice,” he admitted to her.

A look of pity crossed her eyes but she quickly let it pass. Harry didn’t do well being pitied, he never had.

“Have you asked Sirius again, if he could enrol you? Perhaps he would change his mind this time,” she proposed, her encouragement carried by her hopeful voice.

He shook his head at her again but this time he allowed for a small smile. “We’ve had a long discussion on the matter a year ago. He’s been very clear on the issue. Homeschooling for another four years and then I can do whatever I like. If I wish to attend university or engineering school, he’d support me unconditionally.”

She nodded slowly at his recollection of his discussion with Sirius. Thinking about the man’s possible motivations, realization dawned on her. “I remember, he’d told me then too. You’d be eighteen in four years,” she stated, her feelings on his growing older forcing a bittersweet taste to her lips. 

He nodded with pursed lips, having come to that conclusion then as well. “The age where his responsibility as my godfather would cease, yes,” he confirmed bitterly. 

Celine was aware that Sirius was adamant about keeping an eye on his godson and that his care may have caused him to be rather overbearing in that regard. Harry was growing up and with each year, the mix between the hovering and aloofness of Sirius may hurt their relationship more than it did to help.

“What about your job at the bookshop,” Celine recalled with renewed hope, “or the car meets you’ve been going to? Haven’t you made friends there?”

Harry considered the questions for a few moments, before letting his head hang a bit lower shortly after. “The people I met at work are more like acquaintances or colleagues than  _ friends. _ And the car meets are mostly a crowd of older guys who are nice but would rather spend time with other adults than with a fourteen-year-old kid.”

Not letting the issue go, Celine continued to dig for anything she could use to lift his spirits. “What about that Janine girl? I thought you were getting along well.”

“She’s cool, “ he admitted, “but we don’t really talk outside of work. We work well together but we don’t really mesh well as people.”

“I see,” she commented, “so Hermione is your only friend?”

Thinking about it, Harry nodded at that. “I guess so.” 

Celine studied him after his reply, her features morphing into a blank, unassuming gaze. It didn’t take long before she moved to ask another question. 

“Having had the opportunity to speak to your Hermione, I’m just surprised how the two of you even became friends. You say that your co-worker Janine doesn’t  _ mesh  _ well with you but that a studious, knowledge-driven girl does?”

Pausing for a moment, he considered how to explain their relationship. “One day she came into the bookshop and we talked and it just...I don’t know.. _.fit _ ? We have entirely different hobbies and interests, true,” he nodded to concede her point, “but we got along really well regardless. Looking at it now...yeah...it’s a funny thing, really.”

Before Celine could snap at the bait Harry had brought forward, he raised his hand to halt her enthusiasm. “Not like that. We’re friends,” he reminded her, his eyes rolling at her.

She huffed at that and lowered her head back on her hand. Her eyes didn’t leave him, instead, they stared into him. 

Harry could see the wheels turning behind her purple orbs, the information he’d fed her up until this point being processed. 

When she blinked, she moved back toward him, lowering her arm back on the table. “Considering what you’ve told me, Harry, the upcoming racing event is really a make or break moment for you then?”

Unperturbed by the vast change in topic, he went with the flow, celebrating internally.

“Yeah, a good performance would perhaps draw some attention to me and enable me to make my way into the amateur league.”

Celine being unfamiliar with muggle motor racing, waited expectantly for more information. 

Picking up on that, Harry went on to explain further. “Before I can make a living off of racing, I have to get experience, learn the ropes, make connections. I will have to do that as an amateur. Amateurs don’t get paid and must finance everything themselves. There are, however, chances of getting sponsors or patrons, if you will, who can alleviate the burden of costs. Anyway, before any of that happens, I need  _ that _ ,” he pointed at the door to the garage, “to win me the favour of potential sponsors for amateur teams.”

Her nodding indicated that she followed his words and understood what he intended to do. “And how many such events do you have to participate in to make waves?” She asked.

He shrugged at the question as he himself didn’t know an answer to that question. “Preferably only one race, but realistically speaking, I think this will keep me busy until I’m eighteen.”

“That long?” she sounded surprised. “I thought you’d have to be quicker.”

He nodded but went to explain further. “For aspiring drivers, age does indeed matter. For technicians and mechanics not so much actually. I don’t want to be a driver, so I don’t have to work with that timeframe in mind. All I have to do is impress people with my machine, not my driving. If my car can handle the abuse of racing and outpace other cars, then I’d be well on my way.”

“But wouldn’t a good driver make you look better? You said your driver for the upcoming event is a little more than a novice. Wouldn’t he make you look bad?” She asked again.

The truth of her statement stung him but he knew that he had no choice in the matter. If he wanted to make it to that event, he had to accept the deal with Mr Weasley. Money for a racing seat. In the best case scenario, Ron might be a prodigy and worst case, the car ends up in a ditch with a bit of damage.

“As I said, preferably only one event but it will take some to make an impression,” he admitted.

Looking at Harry talk, Celine recognized the joy in the boy’s eyes as he talked about his racing aspirations. If she didn’t know better, she’d assume that he was taking the initiative to follow in his parents’ footsteps. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, she couldn’t say yet.

His circumstances were entirely different from his parents’. A muggle doing muggle things didn’t bother anyone in the Ministry. 

Seeing as he had finished his sandwich, Celine took the opportunity to tidy up the table. “Well, you best get back to your project then.”

“Yeah, thanks for the food. Sublime as usual, Celine,” he called as he stepped around the table to make his way out of the kitchen and down the hallway, to the door of the garage. Before he left the kitchen, he turned briefly to tell her one last thing.

“And Celine,” he said, calling her attention to him again.

“Yes?” she turned to him, halting her submerged hands in the sink.

“Thank you,” he muttered with a small smile, “for the talk.”

Celine smiled at him before she turned back and spied his reflected silhouette disappearing in the glass of the kitchen window in front of her. His absence brought back the silence of the house, leaving only the sound of porcelain knocking into one another.

###

**Same day...**

Château de la Cour, South of Toulouse, South France

The room felt warm and welcoming and the light reflecting off the light coloured walls illuminated the elegantly organized furniture. On the bed that was positioned against the wall and in the centre of the space, clothes laid strewn across in a wild assortment; indicating that something akin to a wild animal had come through here. 

Other than piles of clothes, there were also school materials laying on the floor. Books upon books and an endless number of scrolls could be found in plain sight, partially poking out from under the bed and hiding in the corners of the room. 

The mess could easily be sorted and cleaned up but at the instruction of the person living in it, the house-elves had reluctantly left it as it was. 

Carefully tip-toeing her way through the minefield of personal belongings and fragile utensils, Gabrielle made her way into her big sister’s sanctuary, her eyes splitting their focus between the floor and their search for the older Veela girl.

“Fleur?” she called.

A huffing could be heard coming from the walk-in closet that was attached to the room, accessible through an additional doorway that passed by the vanity. 

“ _ Oui _ ?”

Her ears twitching at the response, Gabrielle whipped her head toward the closet and twisted her body mid-step that would allow her to change direction without accidentally stepping on anything of value.

“ _ Maman _ wants to know how you are getting along with your packing. Said the portkey is due to activate soon.”

Finally passing through the door to the walk-in closet, Gabrielle spied her sister’s form on the floor. Fleur had bent down to go through her shoe collection, seemingly unsatisfied with the choices she had.

The closet was a magically enlarged space that could easily house several queen size beds. Hangers and shelves lined both sides of the closet, and the far corners of the walking space were garnished with full body-length mirrors, permitting not only a view of a choice of attire but also how it fell while walking. It helped judge if something sat awkwardly and needed readjusting or replacing.

Fleur had received the space as a birthday gift on her 14th birthday from their mother, the day she had finally begun her Veela maturation. 

That her maturation had occurred on that day was purely coincidental, it wasn’t like nature worked on a clock.

In Fleur’s case, it had been her immunity to burns that alerted their mother to Fleur’s maturation process. It had most likely already begun a while before her birthday, but it was on that day that it occurred to Apolline that Fleur hadn’t burned her finger holding the blisteringly hot oven tray on which they had baked a cake.

Fleur hadn’t jerked her hand away in pain and neither were there burn marks to signify the radiating heat coming from the metal piece. 

The walk-in closet hadn’t been on the list of gifts before, but after that, it had.

“Fleur?” she called again.

This time her sister reacted visibly, pulling her head out of the darkness of the shoe closet and sitting down on her bare heels. Her hair fell back as she turned her head to gaze up at her younger sister - her eyes softened when they recognized the little Veela chick.

“ _ Oui _ , Gabby?” she finally said.

“ _ Maman _ wants to know if you’re done packing yet,” Gabby repeated. Turning to look through the doorway back into Fleur’s room, she couldn’t stop a giggle from escaping. “I think not.”

Listening to her sister’s amused observation of her preparation status, the elder sister sighed exaggeratedly, lifting a hand to scratch her scalp in frustration.

Pulling her focus back toward Fleur, Gabby continued her inquiry. “Didn’t you say you’d start packing early? Why did you start on the day you’re supposed to leave?”

Biting her lip at the question, her sister got up from the floor while massaging her painfully stiffened knees. Having made sure the blood circulation to her legs was restored, Fleur collected the few pairs of shoes she’d found acceptable for a trip to Scotland.

Entering her bedroom again, she dropped the shoes on the bed next to her other wildly organized pieces of clothing that she’d decided on beforehand.

“I did,” she started suddenly, leaving Gabrielle to wonder for a few moments what she meant.

“Did what?”

“Start early.” 

“Huh?” Gabby uttered, her eyes scanning the room again.

“I did start a few days ago. Did take me a fair time to find everything I’d need,” the elder sister explained while she ticked off her mental list as she looked across her bed.

“You don’t usually take that long to pack.”

“I don’t usually travel to Scotland.”

“What’s wrong with Slotcand?” Gabby asked in a frown.

“It’s... _ cold _ ,” her sister stated plainly.

“But you’ve gone to cold places with  _ Papa _ before.”

“In the muggle world, yes.  _ This _ is different.”

“Different?” she asked, her head shaking at the word.

“My usual clothing wouldn’t hold up against what I’ll be facing there,” Fleur explained calmly.

Gabrielle eyed her worriedly before she continued their conversation.

“Is it because we are Veela? Is the cold weather in Stoc-...Scotland dangerous to us?”

Fleur shook her head reassuringly. “No, not like that.”

“What do you  _ mean _ then?” Gabrielle asked more intensely.

The older Veela crossed her arms and rubbed softly at her biceps, a thoughtful look travelling across her face. She then moved to make space on the bed for both of them to sit but made sure to organize the clothes on it with a silent spell.

“Did  _ Maman _ or  _ Papa _ tell you where I’m going this year?” Fleur asked gingerly.

Gabrielle nodded. “ _ Oui _ , they said you’d first go to Beauxbatons for a month and then you’d travel across the sea to Hogwarts in Sco-tland.”

“And did they tell you why?” she continued.

Gabrielle nodded proudly at that. “Because Auntie Olympe has chosen you to participate in the big tournament where winners become legends.”

Fleur nodded slowly, smiling at Gabrielle’s obvious sense of pride at the words.

“That is more or less what this is all about, yes,” she began, “but it’s because the tournament is difficult and challenging that winners are remembered, Gabby.”

Gabby’s smile flattened at that. “Oh…”

Worried that she may have scared the little girl, Fleur quickly raised her hand to rub her sister’s back comfortingly.

“It’s nothing to worry about, trust me. In the worst case, I lose and come last.”

Gabrielle nodded reluctantly and moved to hug her sister dearly, pressing her head into her chest. Fleur bent her head down onto the smaller head and lifted her free arm to close the hug in a perfect circle around her younger sister’s much smaller body.

“ _ Maman _ said we’ll be able to come visit you there. She didn’t say when, though,” Gabrielle muttered into Fleur’s skin, her nose blowing hot air in small puffs.

“I know. I can’t wait for it,” Fleur responded, her voice muffled by the head of hair under her cheek.

Remembering their shopping trip just a few days ago, Gabrielle moved her head a bit to free her mouth to speak louder.

“What about the dress?” she asked.

“What about it?” 

“It’s not going to help you win a tournament,” Gabrielle stated.

“Maybe not, but maybe yes,” Fleur countered.

Frowning at her sister’s vague answer, Gabrielle loosened her hug a bit and raised her gaze to her sister’s, a question on her lips.

“How so?”

“It’s the dress you chose for me, Gabby,” Fleur began, dropping her forehead onto the smaller one carefully, “it will remind me of you and grant me strength every time I glance at it.”

Hearing the words, Gabrielle’s cheeks turned scarlet, closing her eyes in an effort to hide from her older sister’s caring words.

“It’s not enchanted armour, Fleur,” she admonished fakely as she lowered her head away from her sister’s head, placing it on the shoulder instead.

Fleur shook her head at the chicklet. “What is it that  _ Maman _ used to say when it came to  _ love _ ?”

Gabrielle grinned at the question, a realization dawning on her.

“Love is the fairy’s magic,” she quoted the oldest Veela in the house.

Fleur nodded. “And why did you want to help me choose a dress?”

The question made the younger girl smile widely as it had been the easiest question thus far - the answer only too eager to be unleashed. 

“Because I wanted you to have a dress as well. We’d be able to dance together. You wouldn’t be alone out there.”

The childish honesty of the words struck Fleur, although she’d always been very close with her chicklet sister. They warmed her heart.

Gabrielle felt a warm hand palming her cheek as her older sister kissed her on her temple, the kiss soaring hot.

“And that is why, when the world seems dark and cold, and the challenge such a difficult task I would consider forfeiting, I will remember the dress that hangs dormant in my room. I will remember your love, and push onward. I will persevere and succeed.”

Gabrielle giggled at the words, the heat of the kiss on her face still burning hot. “Fleur, that’s so cheesy.” 

The older Veela giggled at the words in return as well and went to tickle her sister. “You’re my baby chicklet sister, I can be cheesy,” she insisted as Gabrielle’s giggles morphed into a full laugh, only interrupted by gasps of air.

A sudden knock at the door broke their playful display between sisters, allowing Gabrielle to escape the predatory hands of her older Veela sister and move to get up and off the bed.

The darker oceanic blue eyes of Fleur left the lighter turquoise of Gabrielle’s, turning to move toward the origin of the knocking sound.

Apolline stood there leaning against the door frame to the room, her gaze defined by amusement.

“Gabby, l sent you to see how she was doing with her packing. I didn’t tell you to distract her even more,” she reprimanded her youngest daughter lightly.

Gabrielle eyed her mother innocently and shrugged as she waved smugly at her older sister and quickly disappeared through the small gap between the doorframe and her mother’s form.

Watching her daughter disappear behind her, Apolinne then made to enter the space that had just seen a member of the Delacour family leave abruptly. Studying the mess in the room, the mother of two Veela daughters came to stand next to her still sitting child.

“I see you’re still not done,” she summarized. 

“No, I’m actually in the final stages of my packing,” Fleur corrected her, pointing to the piles of neatly folded clothes on the bed next to her two large bags.

Apolline nodded and eyed the clothes that were not on the bed. “What about those?” she pointed.

“Leftover from my pillage of the closet,” Fleur stated.

“I see.”

Apolline pulled her wand from her pocket and cast a spell that floated the clothes back into the walk-in closet and also returned most of the strewn about things to their places of origin.

“I know how to clean up my room, Maman,” Fleur complained.

“Yes, darling, I’m aware,” she said nonchalantly, “but I still like doing it.”

Satisfied that the room looked organized and as elegant as it was, to begin with, Apolline put her wand back into her pocket and turned to do what she originally came for.

“Olympe called,” she started, “she asked me to tell you to go meet her as soon as you are able. As soon as you would arrive at school even.”

Fleur looked away from her packing at the message and gazed at her mother in question. “Why so suddenly?”

“Don’t ask me. I may be your mother but even I am not privy to the headmistress’ plans for you,” Apolline shrugged.

Fleur eyed her suspiciously. “Says the woman who almost went to burn down the school at the previous headmaster’s rejection of my attendance?”

“That’s different. That buffoon called you a ‘creature’,” she huffed at the reminder, “I should have burned more than just his hair for that remark.”

Fleur grinned at the memory of the charcoaled former headmaster, his head now defined by a perfectly shiny hairless scalp.

If it hadn’t been for her parents, Fleur would have never been allowed to set foot in Beauxbatons and her mother would have seen serious legal action being levied against her for her violent act. Fleur wasn’t one to act the part, but she did appreciate that one perk of her paternal noble family name’s measure of influence in the French magical circles. Even though her father had seen plenty of ridicule for his choice of mate, together with her mother they’d braved the insults and harsh press.

Considering it now, there would be a cold day in hell before anyone treated Gabrielle that way and came away unscathed. The next time there’d be two balls of flame burning.

Returning her attention back to her packing, her mother moved around the bed to fetch the dress hanging behind the door, leaving Fleur to focus on the sequence of her packing order.

The older woman returned to her side with the dress hanging from her finger before being laid down on the bed. 

“Have you tried it on again since the first time in the store? Madame Eclipse said to wear it is to  _ be _ the dress,” Apolline said encouragingly.

Fleur sighed in response. “No, I haven’t. It fit the first time and will for the rest of my life.” 

Apolline shook her head lightly at that, letting her hand stroke the soft satin fabric of the faint blue ball gown. A melancholic look passed her eyes as she let the feelings of uncertainty wash over her.

“This Tournament is dangerous, is it not?” she started quietly, her eyes travelling from the gown to her daughter’s turned away body, “Should I have pushed Olympe to tell me? Should I come with you, just in case?”

Shrinking the last of her things, Fleur stowed the miniature shapes into a pocket of her bag before turning to eye the gown and then her worried mother’s form, fidgeting next to it.

“Not you too,  _ Maman _ ,” she moaned with a warm sigh, her mouth gracing a kind, comforting smile. At the confused look of her mother, Fleur explained what she’d told her younger sister which encouraged a wide happy grin to form on Apolline's face who’d then pulled Fleur into a tight embrace.

“My girls,” she muttered into Fleur’s shoulder, “if anything, I’ve taught you the most valuable lesson successfully.”

Fleur hummed to that, patting her mother on the back while they were still hugging one another, the warmth coming from Apolline reminding her of the younger days when she could barely reach her belly button.

Another knock at the door announced the arrival of the last member of the Delacour family, his fully clothed appearance reminding Fleur that time was running out and their departure for the portkey imminent.

“Ready Fleur?” Her father asked with a tone of urgency adding to the overall sense of a rush.

She nodded at him while her mother disentangled herself from their embrace. Spying Jean at the door, Apolline kissed Fleur on the cheek before muttering a quick goodbye into her daughter’s ear. Turning and walking around the bed toward the door, she stopped briefly to kiss her husband as well and subsequently disappeared around the white frame of the door where Gabrielle had vanished to a while ago.

At the pointed look of Jean, Fleur brought her wand forward and angled it at the gown laying on the bed, its form slowly shrinking as to ensure that it didn’t get damaged by sudden uneven distortions to its proportions. 

After finally putting everything in her bags and having ensured that she had nothing left forgotten, she sprinted into her closet to put on her going-out clothes and then rushed down the stairs with the baggage floating sharply behind her.

Reaching the door where her father waited, Fleur briefly turned to wave at her mother and sister standing next to each other, the former’s arm around the latter’s small frame in comfort. 

“Shrink your bags, Fleur, we need to run to make it on time,” her father instructed.

Nodding in agreement, Fleur quickly shrank her bags and pocketed them inside her jacket. Patting herself down one last time to make sure she was ready, she sighed in relief and trepidation. 

She was leaving the only sanctuary that she knew and would spend the next months not only at an institution she didn’t exactly like but also in an entirely unfamiliar country. Despite all the comfort she’d been gifted from her family, the sense of dread still hung heavy on her as she gazed one last time behind her.

Nodding to herself and at her father, they both stepped out into the world and let the heavy door to their home fall into the lock behind them.

###

**Shortly After...**

Somewhere in the Pyrénées Mountain Range, Southern France

The hustle and bustle of incoming students in the floo arrival area echoed off the white walls of Beauxbatons Academy, drowning the conversations of already waiting groups of students pooled around the reception area. The stress of the new school year already marked the sweaty faces of the ladies attending the overly excited freshmen yelling questions in pandemonium.

Older students, who already knew what procedure dictated, walked around the shorter students, like water flowing around a rock in a river. 

None of the people, short and tall, wore their uniform yet. Beaxbatons, other than in schools found abroad, allowed the arrival in casual clothing during the week preceding the first day of school. This allowed newcomers and older students to feel more comfortable when they first get acquainted. 

Shaking her head at the annual chaos of every new school year, Fleur moved to follow the other students, hoping she’d get away without being noticed by them. Tough luck, however.

Most students at the academy already knew who she was and had learned to prepare themselves for her appearance - an effort not to make fools of themselves. Of course, not everyone mastered self-restraint in equal measure as the occasional dazed individual would pluck up the courage to step in her way and make demands.

Luckily it was only rarely that she would have to resort to harsh words or rarer even, a hex, to disentangle herself from unwanted encounters. One or other student would intervene and drag pitiful persons away to lessen their respective sense of embarrassment later when their minds caught up with reality.

The loud noise from before slowly subsided as the freshmen began to notice her, in what sounded like a domino effect of heads turning and words dying on their tongues. The young boys stared in amazement while girls eyed her in admiration as she continued to walk past them on her way inside the castle.

At the snapping of fingers, the freshman turned their attention back to the ladies at the reception, who’d followed the spectacle with little amusement. They gave Fleur neutral glances but she was sure, those eyes were hiding daggers.

Arriving at the inner yard of the castle, Fleur found her only other ally sitting by the fountain, a leg bent of her knee and the French equivalent of Witch Weekly in her hands.

Sitting down next to her, Fleur cleared her throat and bumped her shoulder in the other girl’s, drawing the latter’s attention to herself.

“Woah,” she jumped surprised, almost dropping her magazine onto the floor. Turning to give the person that shocked them the evil eye, they instead spied Fleur.

“Fleur! You scared me. A simple ‘ _ salut _ ’ would have sufficed, you know,” the girl moaned annoyed.

“Sorry, ‘Cilla. I thought you heard me.” 

“Well, I didn’t. Was busy reading this week's teen romance section. I was getting to the good part when you almost shoved me off the bench,” she faux complained.

Fleur gave her an apologetic smile before she turned her attention to the part of the building she’d to enter next. The office of Olympe Maxime was somewhere in it, enchanted to appear only upon being invited. Without an invitation or an emergency, the door to the headmistress’ office would never reveal itself.

“Have you heard anything about Madame Maxime calling for me?” Fleur asked her.

Cilla shook her head at her. “Didn't hear anything about that. Why?”

Fleur shrugged. “My mother said to go see her upon arrival.”

“About what?”

“I just asked you that,” Fleur reminded her.

“Oh, yes. You did.”

Sighing, Fleur crossed her arms in front of her.

“Are you excited about the tournament?” Cilla asked suddenly.

Fleur thought about it but knew she didn’t, not really. “I’d rather stay here and use the weekends to continue my driving training. My last race didn’t end so well. My teammate lost her mind right in the middle of it.”

“That muggle woman, Paula, right?”

Fleur nodded with an angry frown. “Yeah.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing much really,” Fleur started, “it’s more what she failed to do.”

With the questioning look coming from Cilla, Fleur briefly explained what had happened during the race between herself and the older muggle woman. Her friend Cilla shook her head angrily at the retelling, making the odd ‘hmph’ sound in between phrases.

“What a cow,” she finally said.

Fleur shrugged at her friend's expletive. She had spent enough time cursing the woman before already and didn’t need to add anything further.

“So you didn’t win this time?” Cilla inquired.

“No, I got ranked sixteenth. Almost dead-last,” she sighed.

Cilla nodded at that, a grin forming on her lips. “You know, if you mess up at the tournament, you’d get third place at the worst.”

“ _ Oh-la-la-la _ , Cilla,” Fleur complained with a grin. “I thought you were my friend. Where’s the loyalty?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’d get third place at the worst, madame,” she repeated with an exaggerated submissive tone.

Giggling at her friend’s antics, Fleur shoved her playfully before an imposing sense poked at her Veela instincts.

Jerking her head forward, she quickly spotted the intimidating gaze of her headmistress as the tall woman walked toward the two girls. Her determined walk even split groups of students, who’d made way in intimidation of her physical appearance and status. Cilla swallowed visibly and began gathering her things, turning her gaze back to Fleur only once she’d been sure to have collected all her belongings.

“I better go then,” Cilla said quickly, “She looks like business and no play. I’ll see you in the dorms later, Fleur.”

Waving at her as she walked, Cilla bowed slightly at the tall woman with a curt “ _ Bonjour Madame _ ” before she disappeared behind the large form.

The half-giant woman came to a stop once her shadow cast over Fleur's sitting form, the sun hiding behind her.

“Come,” the tall woman ordered flatly before she turned without another word. Her large body swaying in the circular motion, the mass only more noticeable.

“ _ Oui, Madame _ ,” Fleur responded in kind.

Fleur followed her headmistress through the courtyard silently and despite her hurried steps to keep up with Madame Maxime's large stride, the only sounds she could hear were the subdued voices of those observing the two people walking past them.

It was an unusual display for most students at Beauxbatons. The headmistress very rarely demanded to see a student and it was even rarer for her to fetch a student herself. The school prided itself on following and enforcing proper etiquette and conduct within its premises, even within the confines of a duel. Bad behaviour and disrespectful actions were punished harshly, sometimes even with full expulsion from the institution.

However, it hadn’t always been like that. Under the previous headmaster, Beauxbatons had allowed discrimination and blood-purism to thrive within the teaching ranks and those taught. Many students who’d been deemed ‘undesirable’ or ‘disreputable’ had been rejected and were forced to seek education at either Hogwarts or Durmstrang.

According to Fleur’s father, the families whose children were rejected by Beauxbatons were primarily admitted to Durmstrang due to its overall welcoming nature. Its environment was harsh and cruel but believed in equal opportunity. Those who ‘washed out’ had no one to blame but their own selves. 

Fleur respected that and she would have agreed to attend that school herself, had her parents not made a spectacle at her rejection to attend Beauxbatons. Looking at it now, she knew better than to oversimplify their decision to push out the ‘old guard’ of the school in favour of a fresh board of governors and teaching staff.

With Madame Maxime, a legendary mistress of enchantment, the matter of skill over race was a loose debate. Her father had pushed for her acceptance as a new Headmistress and won with relatively little resistance. How he’d managed that, he never said, but she knew that he’d had a career in the magical Ministry of Interior before he’d married her mother and had her and Gabrielle. A string from that past must have helped lay the matter to rest and win him his daughter’s admission to the illustrious institution.

Looking at the students passing them, Fleur recognized nobody who’d remembered the changes of the school. All those who’d studied during the days of the previous headmaster had graduated last summer. Her grade was the first freshman year under Madame Maxime’s tutelage. Her year signified the clean slate of Beauxbatons, the new era.

Considering it now, a win at the Triwizard Tournament would serve as a celebration of the headmistress’ success as an educator and executive officer of the school. The irony that Fleur, the reason why the reforms of Beauxbatons passed in the first place, might be chosen to represent the school at the legendary competition wasn’t lost on her. Madame Maxime was many things, but coincidences didn’t fit her modus operandi. The woman had always a plan in mind.

Reaching a random open door in the corridor they’d been walking in for a while now, Madame Maxime reached for the handle and closed it in front of her. Pulling a bronze-red key from her pocket, the headmistress locked the door and then unlocked it again. Upon unlocking, the door pulsed and a ripple through the fabric of reality passed the immediate area around it.

Her massive hand with the long spider-like fingers still grasping the door handle pushed the door open to reveal an entirely different interior than the empty classroom that it had led to just moments before.

“It amazes me every time,” Fleur commented unintentionally.

The tall woman’s ear perked at her student’s words and turned to smile at her, the intimidating presence from before evaporating entirely. 

“It’s one of my greatest inventions,” she said, “it’s a simple arithmetic formula now but the theory behind it took me ages to develop. I thank you for the compliment, my dear.”

Fleur could only return the smile at the headmistress’ appreciation at her observation. It wasn’t a compliment if it was the truth, but splitting hairs over that was unnecessary.

“Come in and have a seat, please. I’ll go fetch us some tea from my cabinet.”

“ _ Bien sûr, merci Madame _ , ” Fleur nodded.

Closing the door behind her, the half-giantess walked over to her desk and opened a cabinet behind it. With a wave of her wand, the cup ware and ingredients moved as if by an invisible hand.

Fleur sat patiently on the sofa in the middle of the office while her headmistress went about her tea ceremony. 

The office was relatively moderate in decor and served only to help Madame Maxime go about her duties as the head of the educational institution. The space lacked personal touches such as photos or paintings of relatives or places she’d cherished. Nothing that would indicate that this place was meant to be only hers. 

Instead, the room was littered with books and papers on the theory of enchantments from different ages. There were also dusty books garnishing the shelves that addressed alchemical theories. Some bindings even mentioned the philosopher’s stone by the infamous N.F. - Nicolas Flamel, that is.

Why the headmistress had a book on alchemy on her shelf was most unusual, but perhaps it was exactly that reason why her office looked the way it did. Some information to speculate on her motivations but not enough to pinpoint an answer to that question. It left most visitors unassuming of her while it drove unwelcome guests on the backfoot.

But something that Fleur was perfectly aware of was that she stood not only on her mother’s shoulders but also on Madame Maxime’s. She didn’t need to see any personal belongings to know that she owed the woman and owed big.

With the sound of porcelain being put down in front of her, Fleur withdrew from the musings, turning instead to gaze upon the giant woman placing the teacup and some sweets on the table separating the both of them. 

“ _ Merci. _ ”

“ _ De rien _ , Fleur.” The woman returned. 

After adding the appropriate amount of ingredients to her tea and taking a first reluctant sip from the piping hot liquid, the Veela girl cleared her throat to announce the beginning of their meeting.

“What is it that you require of me, Madame?” she started.

Maxime, still turning the spoon in her cup, raised her gaze to meet Fleur’s expectant glance. Studying the young woman, the headmistress’ lips formed a wide smile that reached her eyes, the pride in them softening the overall presence.

“I see you’d like to skip pleasantries and cut straight to the heart of the matter,” she commented evenly but letting her smile remain on her face, “Something I hope you’ll keep doing when we cross the channel. You’ll do yourself no favours by playing cute.”

Fleur nodded obediently at words coming from the woman sitting opposite her. Taking another sip from her tea, she bought herself time to seem patient with her answer.

“I’m going there to win, Madame, not waste my time making nice with the English,” she offered evenly.

“Exactement, my dear,” she noted, “they may say that it is an event to deepen the relations between the three schools and their student bodies. But believe me when I say, a victory is as important to them as it is to us,” she intoned.

“I have no qualms about using my elbows. I won’t give them any quarter and neither will I expect it from any of them,” Fleur agreed.

“Good,” she stated, “then tell me what you’ve been doing the past summer in preparation for the tournament.” 

The question was valid and she already had expected it. Madame Maxime had tasked her with completing exercises ranging between arithmancy, transfiguration, enchanting and duelling.

“As you’ve instructed I’ve worked my short-comings in transfiguration and my potion making and I’m happy to declare that I’ve managed a reliable grasp on the spells you’ve given me to improve. The reverse disintegration spell I _ mo-Reducto  _ has almost accidentally destroyed my mother’s oak tree in the garden but I’ve managed to cast it more proficiently since then.”

“That’s good,” she nodded,” and how is your swimming?” Maxime inquired further.

“My swimming is  _ excellent _ , Madame,” Fleur huffed. 

“That’s not what I meant, Fleur,” she shook her head at her, ”have you learned to fight underwater with the bubblehead charm?”

The headmistress continued to stare at Fleur, who’d remained quiet at the prodding inquiry. She lowered her head and admitted wordlessly that she’d yet to master that exercise.

Sighing to herself, Maxime swallowed to clear her throat but made to sip from her tea as well. 

Placing the cup back on the table, she eyed Fleur with slight disappointment and pursed her lips.

“I tasked you with these things to prepare you for  _ potential  _ tasks that you might have to face in the tournament. I won’t punish you for failing to train for these eventualities, but it’s you who might punish yourself for failing in the end, Fleur.”

Shaking her head at the headmistress, Fleur’s voice took on a hot touch. “Why are you so sure that it will be me participating in these tasks? Last I checked it’s the Goblet of Fire that determines the champions.” 

The half-giantess leaned back on her chair and looked down at Fleur with mild amusement at her protestation. 

“Do you really think anyone other than you will be chosen as champion?”

“There is always a chance,” she responded confidently.

“Don’t insult our intelligence by being so falsely humble,” Maxime stated, “isn’t it you who worked harder than any other student at this institution to prove herself? Wasn’t it also you who broke every single standing record of this institution?”

Maxime eyed her intensely at her prodding questions, her words jabs at Fleur who’d flinched slightly at every incline of the headmistress’ voice.

“Yes.” Fleur offered reluctantly.

Satisfied with her answer, the giant woman then leaned the arm of the enlarged chair she’d been sitting on. The padding of the chair reached up to Fleur’s head, forcing her to twist her head upward. Had she been able to, she’d have charmed the Sofa to float upward to even the scale between herself and the headmistress’. The room was, however, warded against foreign spell casting other than the owner’s magic.

“Have you read up on the history of the tournament and familiarized yourself with the previous champions’ solutions to the tasks?” 

“ _ Oui _ , although I believe that many of the tasks would have benefitted from my Veela heritage. Their solutions were rather crude by comparison.” Fleur commented.

Maxime nodded at that with pride, the inclusion of the innate nature of the Veela a remarkable sign of personal growth. 

“I believe that your gauging of the problem-solving skills of the past champions is the most fruitful outcome of the exercises that I have given you.” 

“How do you mean?” Fleur asked, the cryptic comment confusing her.

“The tournament is unlike any other test you’ll ever have to face. It weighs not only your knowledge and prowess as a witch, Fleur, it also measures your mettle as a person,” she explained.

“The fact that you’ve looked at other champions’ solutions and found them inadequate, and even offered your own personal advantages over those, proves that you’ve learned the most vital lesson required to master any challenge,” Maxime added.

“And that would be?” Fleur asked.

“Independence,” Maxime stated proudly, “you’ve learned to see things through your eyes only and used critical thinking on how to best go about it. You’ve gone over past challenges and instead of narrowing down on what others did, you’ve gauged how  _ you  _ would go about doing it.”

Fleur smiled at the praise but moved to take another sip from her tea and possibly hide from further inquiries into her summer.

It wasn’t a secret that Maxime saw no profit in Fleur’s career in motorsports but it was also thankfully not on the agenda of the upcoming school year and as such hopefully not part of today’s meeting.

“So, now that I know you’ve learned to see things in a new more controlled light,” Maxime began anew, “how would you go about fighting underwater?”

At the urging glance of her headmistress, Fleur considered the hypothetical task in her head. 

For those who knew, Veela were beings of air and fire, able to transform into avian warriors that can wield blue fire that was hot enough to melt steel in seconds upon contact. 

Water was the natural enemy of any Veela, not only suffocating any chance of summoning their innate fire but also weakening their general attributes as an avian being. Spending any time in water, let alone  _ under  _ any water surface spelt calamity. 

Unable to come up with a brilliant idea, Fleur settled on the most simple skeleton key to any conversation.

“I’ll figure it out when it comes to that, Madame,” she stated confidently - on the side she was anything but.

Staring at the young woman for a few more moments, Maxime nodded at the answer, indicating that she found it acceptable enough.

“Very well, I’ll leave matters to you then. You still have time to improve your shortcomings and I’ll inform the professors not to give you too much homework-”

“No!” Fleur interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“Leave things as they are, please. I’ll manage even without preferential treatment,” Fleur insisted.

At the unsurprised look on the headmistress’ face, Fleur groaned inwardly, realizing she’d just been tested again.

Humming to herself, Maxime nodded at Fleur and got up from the chair, indicating the approaching end of their meeting and the subsequent dismissal of Fleur.

“As you wish, I will say nothing and leave you to your business. Oh, and don’t forget to bring a dress for the Yule Ball. As a champion you will be required to open the dance,”

Maxime reminded Fleur, as she moved toward her desk in the farthest part of the office, the light falling through the large colourfully stained windows drawing pretty pictures on the wooden desk.

“Yes, thank you, Madame,” Fleur responded, a smile gracing her feature at the words that followed, “and don’t worry about the dress. My sister has made sure I’m well equipped in that regard.”

“Ah, good,” Maxime commented, a toothy grin emerging, “I will have to pass my thanks to her then when I write to your mother.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy at the praise,” Fleur offered.

The following silence allowed Fleur to finish her tea, for which she thanked her host, and move to leave the office through the door that may lead her to an entirely different place than from where she entered it.

Opening the door, she sighed dejectedly at the scenery before her. 

“My apologies,” Maxime called from behind her, “I may have figured everything out with this spell of mine but still struggle with the ‘exit’ part of it.” 

Fleur chuckled at the explanation and continued her departure from the headmistress’ office, closing the door behind her. 

Breathing in the manured air, she jerked and raised her hand to close her nose shut between her fingers. Stepping forward on her way back to the castle, she raised her free hand to pet the snout of the curiously nudging white Abraxan that poked its head out from its open door.

_ Of all the places to end up in, it had to be the horse stables. _

**End of Chapter**

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N#2:Poor Fleur, her shoes are ruined. *Oh-la-la*
> 
> If you liked the newest chapter, please leave a comment. If you didn't like something in my newest chapter, leave a comment as well.
> 
> You like the Fleur/Harry pairing, come and join the Flowerpot (Fleur = Flower, Potter = Pot) discord at: discord . gg / k8ZxUjE (Remove Spaces).
> 
> You can join my discord at: discord . gg / uE6Xkj2V (Remove Spaces).


End file.
